


Etude

by marimofluff



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, I don't know what I'm doing, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Mature rating for future chapters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, old-timey but I can't write old-timey dialogue, purely self-indulgent, slooooooooooooooooooowest burn, so many anachronisms it'll make your eyes bleed, watch me pretend to be a historian and fail miserably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24085399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marimofluff/pseuds/marimofluff
Summary: It's the 19th century, and Kylo Ren is a prestigious composer and pianist. Seeing as you're an aspiring pianist yourself -- and your father wants to add to your lacking list of marriageable qualities -- you've become one of his students. What secrets will unfold between the two of you as you get to know this man who is as feared as he is respected?
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 33
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Wow! You're reading this! This story started out as a way to pass the time during sleepless nights, but has grown into a fic that I'm super passionate about. My friends have convinced me share it, so: here you go! Updates to come, lots of editing needed. :v

I woke up to the cold biting at my fingertips. Groaning, I huddled further under the covers and clenched my digits in an attempt to recuperate some warmth. Despite being my favourite season, autumn had the unfortunate downside of having to say goodbye to comfortable weather. The house would only continue to grow colder as the days went on, and there were only so many blankets I could cover myself with.

Huffing hot air into my hands, I began to let myself drift off once more. My sister Nancy, however, had other plans. Barging into my room with a bang, she ran and leapt on the bed.

“Wake up! It’s morning!”

“Nancy!” I moaned, turning over defiantly as she bounced up and down while shaking my shoulders. “Leave me alone!”

“No!” She shouted, followed by a laugh. “Come have tea with us. There are some warm biscuits to eat, too!”

Warm biscuits sounded pretty heavenly considering how cold I was. Though I would have loved to sleep for another hour, I poked out from my mass of blankets and looked up at my sister.

“Your tactics would be more successful if you woke me up like a normal person,” I said while reaching out to tug playfully at one of her golden locks. “You’re going to give me a heart-attack one of these days.”

“Seems to me my tactics work perfectly fine,” Nancy replied, hopping off of the bed. “You’re up, aren’t you?”

“Shove off, you brat. I’ll see you downstairs.”

With a giggle she was gone, but I could hear her run all the way to the kitchen. Fighting a smile, I threw off the rest of the covers and shivered. I grabbed a large cowl from the chair beside my bed and wrapped it around myself, hoping this third layer of wool would succeed in warming me up.

Downstairs, the air smelled like butter and strong tea. My older sister Nessa was sitting at the kitchen table with our father, who was reading the newspaper as he munched on a crumbling biscuit.

“Morning,” I said, pulling out the chair beside Nessa and grabbing myself a plate from the centre of the table. I pinched a hot biscuit from the tray and dropped it on my plate. The warmth trickled up my fingers and I could feel myself salivate.

“Good morning.” Nessa smiled at me from behind her cup and softly placed it back on its saucer after taking a tiny sip. “Did you sleep well?”

“Until the cold and the gremlin woke me,” I responded, raising my eyebrows at Nancy. She was boiling another pot of water at the stove, and stuck her tongue out at me. “See? Gremlin.”

Our father grunted. “Indeed.”

“Papa!” Nancy exclaimed, throwing her arms around his shoulders from behind his chair. “How could you agree to such a horrible thing?” She let out a mock sob and flailed about the kitchen.

“Calm yourself, child!” Though he sounded displeased, this was a daily occurrence in our household and he had long given up on reigning in little Nancy. This attitude was tame for her, if anything. Papa kept on reading his newspaper as if nothing had happened. 

“Don’t you have your first piano lesson today?” Nessa asked while handing me the butter dish. She was also an expert at ignoring our youngest sister’s behaviour.

“That’s right,” Father chimed in, suddenly interested in the conversation and folding his paper onto the table. “Have you quite prepared yourself? Do you have all of your things?”

“Yes, Nessa, and yes, Papa.” I took a sip of the tea that Nancy poured me, the freshly boiled water burning my lips. “The lesson is at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“Are you taking the carriage?”

“Yes, I’m not quite sure how to reach Mr. Ren’s on my own.”

“Hm, yes,” my father mumbled, chewing at his moustache. “Quite a nice neighbourhood. Please wear something nice — not that usual brown frock of yours.”

“Of course, Papa.” I wasn't about to waltz into one of the richest sectors of the city in an old pinafore. The social status of my family was of great importance to my father, even if we were better off than most. I’ll never forget the horrified look on his face when I was ten and came home in a thoroughly muddied dress. I had chased a chicken into the muck on the way back from the market, and as a result tripped into a bog. The whole thing had infuriated my father so much that I wasn’t allowed to make a market trip for well over a month. 

“Mr. Ren is a very sought after man!” My father exclaimed. “Not only are his compositions and performances renowned throughout the country, but his presence is highly sought after as well! He doesn’t take on many students, and I—“

“You went out of your way to secure me a position as one of those students; yes, I know, Papa. I’m very grateful for that.” I felt like I had said these exact words since the day my father joyously shared the news with me that Mister Ren would be my piano teacher — 4 weeks ago.

“Be on your best behaviour, and listen to him carefully! No lip!”

He pointed a finger at me and waited for confirmation.

“Yes, Papa, no lip. He’s not you, after all.”

“Oh, heavens,” Papa muttered, picking up his newspaper from the table, “Sometimes I really blame the good Lord for taking your mother away and leaving me to look after you rascals alone. You’ll all be the death of me.”

“Not if we can help it, Papa,” Nancy said while planting a kiss on his cheek. “Have another biscuit, it’ll help with the stress of having three daughters.”

Our father mumbled unintelligibly as he bit into another biscuit. Nessa chuckled into her napkin and Nancy patted him on the head affectionately, not unlike how one would praise a puppy.

— — —

After Nancy and I finished cleaning up the dishes from breakfast, us three girls set out to buy some fruit from the market. The apples from this time of year were our favourite, and we would often have them sliced for dessert, sometimes dipped in honey if we were feeling especially sweet. 

“Are you looking forward to your lesson, sister?” Nessa asked me as we walked down the street, all three of us linked arm in arm.

“I think so,” I replied honestly, kicking at a pebble in our path. “I’m a little intimidated, to be honest. I’ve heard people talk about him with such praise, but most seem a little scared of him as well.”

“Perhaps it isn’t easy being well-known the way he is,” Nessa offered. “The gossip might get to him.”

“I heard that no one’s ever seen him smile, not even once!” Nancy exclaimed. 

“And that’s precisely what I mean, Nancy. How would you feel if people were saying things like that about you?”

The youngest rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Maybe I would try smiling once in a while.”

I nodded. “It is a little strange that he seems so… morose all of the time — from what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“All I’m trying to say is that I sympathize with the man — being gossiped about would make anyone sour,” was Nessa’s mature response. She wasn’t wrong. All I knew about Mr. Ren was through word of mouth: that he was an amazing composer, performer and intellect, but who’s personality left much to be desired. A rich bachelor nearing the age of thirty. I didn’t even know what he looked like. 

“I’m excited to hear him play, at least. He must be amazing to have become so successful. Do you think he’ll play at my lesson?”

Nessa pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. Won’t he want to focus on _your_ playing?”

“I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I’ll be able to convince him to play me a little something, as encouragement.” I laughed as the last words left my mouth, and Nessa joined in. If he was anything how people described him to be, the last thing he’d do was offer to play out of the generosity of his heart.

The market wasn’t very busy. A few women in maid frocks were filling up their baskets with fruits and vegetables, collecting the weekly bounty for their respective families. I spotted a booth with a pile of shiny red apples and nudged both of my sisters. “There!”

We studied the apples carefully, turning them over in our hands and squeezing them lightly to test their firmness. I could smell the warmth of the orchard from the barrel, and the pleasant aroma made me smile.

“Well, no matter how it goes, you’ll have to tell us every detail tonight at dinner,” Nessa said, continuing our earlier conversation. “There are just so many questions waiting to be answered!”

“Aren’t you perpetuating the gossip you were just criticizing, Nessa?” Nancy chirped, carefully placing an apple into our cloth bag. Nancy bit her lip and I chuckled.

“She’s right, you know.”

Nessa sighed, “Yes, alright, but the curiosity is _killing_ me. He’s such a mysterious man.”

This was true. Mr. Ren was indeed mysterious in all ways. A famous pianist emerging from seemingly nowhere, making the rounds of the country to entertain and amaze everyone who would listen to his music. No one knew of his background; no one knew why he was still single. Did he have family? Lovers? His life was an enigma. The only thing everyone knew for certain was that he played piano, and he played it wonderfully. He had had a few students over the years, but none of them had risen to his acclaim or divulged any information on his personal life; and now, I was going to be one of those few.

“Alright, apples picked. Let’s head home so we can make our sister pretty for her lesson this afternoon!” Nancy clapped at Nessa’s exclamation, and after paying the merchant we linked arms once more and made our way home. With only a few hours before my meeting with the infamous man, my excitement swelled in my chest and I wondered: _Who will Mr. Ren be?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be doing bi-monthly chapter uploads, but I couldn't start things out without at least bringing in _Mr. Ren._ Enjoy! <3
> 
> If you want to listen to the piece mentioned in this chapter, here's a link to my favourite rendition: https://open.spotify.com/track/3NEDs7g2vMSpWPhQJ4qOkj?si=QdIijP-XTseVJVgcW-Bmjg

A dribble of rain began to fall as I set my foot onto the cobblestone. With a click of his tongue, the horseman propelled his carriage forward and away he and his mare went. The soft clopping of her hooves faded into the sound of droplets hitting the ground; I was brought back to the present moment and put my hand up to my brow. Looking up at the modest building before me, I clutched the fabric of my dress and hoisted the layers up, only to see that the hem had already soaked in some of the puddled rain.

“Of course,” I muttered, hurrying up to the house while holding my book bag over my head. I decided a bonnet would be unnecessary today — and also over-the-top for the situation at hand — and _of course_ , my naked hair would pay the price. By the time I reached the door, wispy tresses had already matted to my cheeks. I grabbed the golden knocker and rapped it timidly against the wood. After a few seconds of silence, the door opened, and there stood a short man in an old suit.

“Come in,” was all he said, his eyes evading mine. Stepping aside to let me in, I shrunk my shoulders and slipped inside, closely met with the sharp closing of the door behind me. 

The main hall was very dark, lit only by the dying glow of an oil lamp on the table and the muffled light traversing through drawn linen curtains. Everything was very brown and very grey, and void of anything unnecessary. Slipping my one arm through the sleeve of my jacket, I placed it carefully on the empty coat rack. Beads of water wobbled over the firm wool and went _plip_ as they reached the floor. The sound drew a grunt from the man as he regarded my boots. 

“This way,” he said, turning immediately and beginning to stride down the narrow hall. I followed him a few paces back, my mood already sinking from this awkward interaction. _Ye_ s, I wanted to say, _I purposefully waited to get myself drenched so that I could flick water all over the house and look like a mess while doing it! I’ll try to command the gods of rain before I arrive next time_ — if there is a next time. I hadn’t yet met the person I came here to meet, but I already wanted to leave. I continued with my imaginary — and wasted — arguments with the older gentleman in my head until we reached a double set of doors, which he opened with both hands. I held my breath in anticipation for some sort of wave of light or sound to sweep over us, but in reality, it only opened up into another brown and grey room.

“Sir, the young miss has arrived.”

“Late,” said a deep voice from somewhere in the room I couldn’t see. The man who had begrudgingly escorted me was standing in the middle of the doorway, gloved fingers still laced around the handles of the doors as if to create a barrier. 

“Yes, well,” the man responded, turning his head to look at me up and down, and then back to his _sir_. “She’s quite wet.” 

My facial expression got caught somewhere between a blush and a scowl, which I quickly tried to play off by lowering my head and offering a small curtsey. 

“My apologies, sir; I came ill-equipped for the rain.”

“Don’t apologize to me, child. Step inside,” and with that, he gestured towards the open room, annoyed that I hadn’t somehow already walked in by my own volition. 

Taking a few timid steps forward, I made my way into the room. My attention was drawn upwards, where the ceiling leapt high in a small dome shape, two or even three storeys higher than the previous hallway. Around the top were some very simple pieces of stained glass; muted shafts of coloured light faded into soft orange glows in the atmosphere in the room, as though it had its own sky. A light constellation of dust permeated the room, making the time here seem slower, the colours softer. As my eyes travelled down, I could finally admire the ornate craftsmanship of what had just felt like brown blobs in the foyer. The grey here had hints of blue and green, casting gentle reflections around the room.

To my left was a man sitting in an armchair, legs crossed with a book propped open on his knee. His dark eyes were trained on the page, seemingly unaware of my or the older man’s presence. My first impression was that he seemed younger than how I had imagined him. Aren’t pianists and composers usually in their fifties or sixties? This man couldn’t have been too far into his thirties, if at that. He had tousled black hair that framed his jaw and cascaded down to his shoulders. Some messy strands looked as though they were obscuring his view of the pages before him, but he made no attempt to brush them away. 

Uncertain of what I should do next, I remembered the servant’s earlier remark and curtsied once more.

“Please forgive me for being late, Mr. Ren. I am very pleased to finally be making your acquaintance.” 

“Go sit on the bench,” he replied bluntly, eyes not leaving the page. I swallowed. Had I really upset him by arriving late? I wondered if maybe it’s because of my damp hair and clothes, but then realized that he hadn’t even looked at me yet. My lips pursed in frustration. 

“Yes, sir,” I said dully, and without another word, I walked across the open room towards the grand piano. Pulling the bench out from under the keys, I gently adjusted the distance and quickly sat down, my attempt at being as efficient as possible. I looked back at the entrance and noticed that the doors were closed and the older man was gone.

“What’s his name?” I asked aloud before being able to filter myself. 

The man in the chair snapped his book shut, which in turn snapped my back straight. I kept my eyes on the pearly keys and waited for my inevitable scolding for speaking out of turn. His footsteps approached, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose, magnetically drawn to the intensity of his aura. I couldn’t read this man for the life of me.

“Hux. His name is Hux.”

_A house of very few words, hm?_ Mr. Ren walked past the piano, and for the first time, I saw him standing, walking over to a cabinet, and was in awe at his size. _Lord_ , I thought, _have I ever seen a man this tall before?_ From my seated position on the low piano bench, I felt like a very insignificant bug in his towering presence. 

Flipping aside his jacket, he crouched down and opened a chest with several long drawers. Though I could only peak through the lid of the piano, I could tell there were several composition books and sheets of music, which he rifled through in a flurry. He plucked a thin book from the pile and slammed the drawer shut. I jumped a little in my seat but froze as he got up and turned around to face me. It was the first moment we had looked at each other face-to-face, eye-to-eye, and I was overcome with feeling… unsettled. His long face was broody and solemn, cast behind a wall of stone. His eyes were a deep but empty brown, looking not at me but through me, and through the wall beyond even that. Lips drawn to a line, not stressed but not relaxed, just solid and expressionless. Beautiful, maybe, in the way a carved bust can be, but silent. Cold. The lashes on his lids and the moles on his cheeks a warm black like coal, but cold nonetheless. 

“Are you capable of reading music?” he asked, setting the booklet on the rest in front of me. His large hand was close to my face, and I noticed his calloused fingertips and dried knuckles. A little beauty mark was visible on the crescent between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I am,” I responded softly, still unsure of my status before such a person. “Perhaps not very well,” I added as a security measure, fearing what he might consider a proficiency at reading music that might go beyond my abilities. 

“Then play,” was his final instruction — which felt a lot more like a command — and I watched as he returned to the brown armchair he was sitting in only minutes before. He opened the book he was reading when I entered the room and found his place in it once more. It’s like he hadn’t moved at all. 

Turning to face the piano, I looked at the booklet that was so unceremoniously placed in front of me: _Chopin, Etudes Op. 10_. I only knew Chopin from his more famous pieces, most of which were challenging to play. A man at the club once performed _Nocturne Op.9 No.2_ when Nancy and I were having tea, and the slight swelling of the keys had brought me much happiness that day. Flipping through the book before me, I felt something quite the opposite of what I had felt then. Hundreds of black notes danced across the bars, overlapping, in chords, in trills, and in sweeping waves that looked like trees on mountain-ridges. Was he expecting me to sight-read these now? I was too afraid to turn around and look at him for instruction.

I put the tips of my fingers onto the keys and got them into the appropriate positions. Yes, I could read music, but I had absolutely no confidence in sight-reading a piece at perfect tempo on the first try — or even the tenth. I counted down in my head, imagining the pace and sound of the notes. I would have to play it a lot slower than intended, and even then, I would probably hit some wrong keys. At this point, the waiting and imagining only made my anxiety grew, so I took a deep breath and began to play.

The only praise that I could give myself was that I at least started out on the right notes, but it got worse from there. My inexperienced fingers tumbled across keys, continuously breaking tempo by playing either too quickly or too slowly. My left hand managed, for the most part, in what could be described as the most comfortable set of chords Chopin has probably ever written. Minutes of struggling went by as my right hand continued to trip back and forth. A line of sweat developed on my brow, and my heart sank lower into my stomach. It sounded awful. I subconsciously quickened the pace of the last few bars just to have the piece finally over with and was met with a maddeningly heavy silence. My hands returned to my lap, and the back of my neck burned with shame. What would he say? Would he kick me out? I knew that I had to have a modicum of talent to receive lessons from such an esteemed teacher, but perhaps I was nowhere near the level of experience he expected from his pupils. I was about to stand from the bench and make my quick retreat when his voice rose from the back of the room.

“Again.”

Gulping the saliva that had collected in my mouth, I stared at the music in front of me. Again? Again as in _“It was horrible.”_? Again as in _“Do it better.”_? No emotion betrayed the intention of his word. It was impossible to gather how he was feeling, and I assumed things wouldn’t be more apparent even if I did look at him. Too scared to question him or leave, I put my hands above the keys again.

The second run-through was not better. If fact, it may have been worse. The added nerves of confusion made for some fumbling on the left-hand melody, an amateur mistake. My confidence had disintegrated entirely by this point, and when I finished the piece, I was absolutely ready to leave. 

“Again,” he said, and a cold chill ran down my spine. Was this becoming a game of humiliation? I turned my head and began to address him, but he interrupted me mid-syllable.

“ _Again._ ” 

Fighting the overwhelming desire to tell him off, I swivelled back to face the piano. I would do it again. Whether it was blind faith in his abilities or the weakness of not being able to stand up for myself, I didn’t know. The reason didn’t matter much at this point, so without another second wasted, I played the piece once more. 

— — —

I played the piece thirteen more times. After hitting my last exhausting note, Mr. Ren’s voice came from beside me.

“Enough,” he said curtly, swiping the sheet music from the stand and walking back over to the cabinet. I was shocked that he had been so close, and by the fact that I hadn’t even noticed until he said something. I was so intensely focused on playing the etude — playing it _righ_ t — that I must have completely removed myself from the moment. Opening the chest, he shoved the thin booklet inside and spoke once more, “You may go now.” 

“Go?” The word slipped between my lips before I could stop it, and I clenched my teeth out of embarrassment. Was he sending me off now, after all of that?

“Yes, go.”

He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. His hands were rummaging through a stack of papers that were sprawled out on top of the table. All I could see was his broad back, his wavy curls of ink-black hair, and the length of his legs that lead up to his high waist. At some point, he must have shed his coat in favour of just a white shirt — which was creased and crumpled, no less. For some reason, this infuriated me.

“Are you implying that that was our lesson?” I asked, staying seated at the bench, hands now balled into fists on my lap. My eyes burned into his shoulders.

“I’m not implying anything,” he said, his tone expressing that he couldn’t have cared less about continuing this conversation. The sound of fluttering papers in his hands echoed about the room. “The lesson is over, so you may go now.”

Dumbfounded, I stood up. _You call that a lesson?_ I shouted in my head. _Saying the word “again” thirteen times counts as a lesson? My ten-year-old sister could have done just as well!_ The imaginary yelling continued, but my mouth remained shut. This haughty pianist was getting away with being a total ass.

“Forgive me for thinking I was going to learn something of substance,” I said in my most naive voice, permitting myself to say perhaps the sharpest thing I have ever said to a stranger. His apathy towards my presence and his job had ignited a fire in my stomach like none had ever quite raged before. I stomped briskly to the double doors and pushed one open, not even bothering with a second glance at his figure. If any of my actions were considered rude at this point, no one could exactly say it was unwarranted.

The other man, Hux, was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t exactly have the need to be shown to the door, so I hurried to the rack that held my still damp jacket and shrugged it on. Part of me had wondered if Mr. Ren would have run out and apologized, or even just cursed me out, but I was alone in the hallway. I waited for a few hammered heartbeats, giving him the slightest benefit of the doubt. Nothing. With a huff, I exited his house without so much as a goodbye and ran to the street. Despite the rain, I had resolved on walking home; with no idea what time it was, there was no way of knowing how long I’d have to wait for the carriage to come back. Perhaps this was ideal because I spent the entire walk home mumbling under my breath about what an annoying prick Mr. Ren had turned out to be. I swore to myself that I would never return for another miserable lesson, not for anything, but little did I know what wishful thinking that was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need an editor lol.

“Heavens, sister! What on earth happened to you?” 

Nessa stared at me in shock as I closed the front door behind me, my clothes dripping puddles onto the wooden floor.

“Don’t ask,” I muttered as I shrunk out of my overcoat and hung the heavy mass on the coat rack. Second to go were my boots, which I kicked off and gathered on the mat by the door. _Perhaps I should put them by the fire to dry_ , I pondered, but decided that it was safer to leave them in the entrance rather than dragging everything into the living room. Father was going to have a fit either way.

“What happened to the carriage? Did you walk all the way home?” My sister continued, ignoring my request. “Did something happen at your lesson?”

“No, rather, _nothing_ happened at my lesson.”

“What? Oh, come here, you must be freezing.”

Nessa grabbed my hand and pulled me into the kitchen. I could immediately feel the warmth of the oven, and this small comfort made me sigh. 

“Sit here, I’ll fetch you some towels.”

My sister darted off, and I was alone once more. I sniffed and ran a damp hand under my nose; it was beginning to run from the cold. _Or your emotions_ , my other half retorted in my mind, rolling her eyes at my pathetic state. I grabbed a tea towel from the table and wiped the wetness from my face and hands. My hair was dripping cold water down my neck, so I wrung it out into the cloth.

Nessa strode back into the room with a large bundle of towels in her arms. “We’re going to dry you off, and then you’re going to tell me everything that happened.”

She wrapped one of the towels around my shoulders and placed another smaller one on my head. Her hands squeezed and massaged my hair through the cloth, and I began to feel better. I could pretend she was just helping me dry off after a bath.

“There’s not really much to tell, Nessa,” I said, hugging the towel that was around me like a shawl. “He told me to leave and the carriage was gone, so I walked home.”

“He told you to leave?” She exclaimed, hands pausing for a moment. “What on earth for?”

“The lesson was over. He said it was over, anyway.” I recalled how he told me to go in the most apathetic way humanly possible, after paying little to no attention to me for the 30 minutes I had been there for. 

“Did you say something that upset him?” 

“Why would you assume that?” I asked, feeling a little hurt by her accusation. “He barely uttered a word the entire time I was there. He made me play an etude thirteen times, and then told me to go.”

“That’s… odd. Is that what piano lessons are like?”

I scoffed. “I didn’t think so. Maybe I was wrong.”

Nessa _hmmed_ and thought for a moment. “He really is a peculiar man, then.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea, Nessa. It’s like my very presence was too boring for him to bear. He sat in his armchair and ignored me the entire time. His butler wasn’t nice either.”

“Interesting…” she muttered, removing the towel from my head and dropping it onto the ground where my clothes and boots had begun to collect water. “That’s very curious.”

“Papa is going to have a heart attack when he finds out. I didn’t leave saying the kindest words.”

“Oh, dear… maybe we can refrain from telling him that part.” Nessa squeezed my shoulders and patted me on the back in an attempt to comfort me, but a pit was beginning to form in my stomach.

“You don’t think Mr. Ren will advise him of my behaviour? I’m certain he won’t want to see me again.” I chuckled half-heartedly. “At least the feeling is mutual.”

“Honestly, I have no idea what that man will do. He sounds unpredictable.” 

“That’s an understatement,” I said, brushing some damp strands of hair behind my ear. I looked up at my sister, who was giving me an expression of concern. So many questions swam behind her light green eyes. I took her hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.

“Thank you, Nessa, for being so understanding. You’ve made me feel a lot better. I felt like a proper idiot the entire way home.”

She shook her head and squeezed my hand back. “Don’t. You had every right to react the way you did. I probably would’ve thrown something at his head!”

We both laughed and let out long sighs. Standing up from my chair, I grabbed the discarded towels around me and bundled them into my arms. “I’ll go clean up properly now. Thank you for attempting to dry this drenched rat.”

Nessa rolled her eyes and dismissed me with the wave of a hand. When I got up to my room, I shrugged off my still-damp clothes and laid them on the chair by the window. I stripped down completely and wrapped two towels around my shivering body, then crawled into bed. This morning had been cold, but this was much colder. Being alone in the quiet of my room made memories of this afternoon come flooding back, and I closed my eyes to contemplate them. Images of Mr. Ren flashed at the front of my mind: his broad back as he stood across the room, hunched over the table; his large hand placing the booklet of etudes on the piano stand; the strands of black hair that fell across his high cheekbones; his dark eyes that looked through me as though I was glass; and the deep voice that told me to go. My heart burned with frustration, and I curled up into a ball under the layers of blankets. The anxiety at the prospect of having to see him again pricked at my stomach. What would he say to my father? What would he say to me? Maybe — I hoped — he would refuse to have me as his student. Maybe I wouldn’t have to experience that horribly uncomfortable silence and coldness ever again. I would find another teacher, someone lesser-known but infinitely warmer, and I would smile and laugh with them as we explored the love of piano together. I couldn’t imagine a fulfilling future with Mr. Ren — all I could envision is a dark room with strict rules of perfection, removing any sort of joy that the music could have possibly brought me. 

I thought about my musical origins. The piano in our home was old and in questionable tune, but it was incredibly dear to me. It had been in the living room for as long as I could remember, a constant in my life that felt like a whirlwind of changes. Hearing a young Nessa tinker at the keys — although unsuccessfully — will always be one of my very first memories as a child, the first time I dared to touch the keys myself being the second. I often spent my time inventing little tunes and playing them repeatedly, much to the dismay of my father. As I grew older, I read through the books of music sheets and spent weeks memorizing the different notes and what they sounded like. My interest could very well have inspired my father to hire me a tutor. Still, the pain of my mother’s passing — the one who bought the piano and played it in the first place — was too intense for him to consider investing the emotional energy. I don’t blame him; though I never met my mother, the connection she had with the instrument carries on long after her passing. Her notes are scrawled in the margins of her sheet music, and her fingerprints remain invisible on the ivories. 

“Sister!” Nessa shouted from downstairs, and I jolted up in bed. Thoughts of my mother disappeared like smoke. “Father’s home!”

The heaviness I had felt in my stomach earlier returned, and I hurried to my cabinet to put on some fresh clothes. I had just finished trying the bow on my bodice when I heard the front door swing open.

My name was shouted before the door had even been shut again. Unsurprisingly, my father didn’t sound very pleased.

“Coming, Papa!” I yelled back, as innocently as one could possibly yell. I quickly padded out of my room and slid down the hallway. When I reached the staircase, he was already standing with his foot on the first step.

“Heaven’s above, child. Have you seen yourself?” He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe the state I was in. My hand flew to my head to inspect my hair, and it felt like it had been replaced by a bird’s nest.

“Never mind that, come down here this instant!” 

I nodded and stayed silent, walking down the stairs with my head bowed. He stomped off into the kitchen, and I followed. When he finally looked at me again, he pointed to a chair and commanded me to sit. The second I was seated, he started.

“Shall I tell you about my day? Well, after a lovely morning at the office, Gerald and I went to the club to unwind with a few cigars. We get halfway through the first when the coach comes running in to inform me that you were not at Mr. Ren’s when he returned to pick you up.” 

I scratched my eyebrow, keeping my head down. 

“When I asked him to explain, he told me he waited out front for twenty minutes after the end of your lesson before going to the door to see if something had gone wrong. The butler tells him you’ve already left! In the pouring rain!”

“Well, in my defence—”

“I’m not finished!” He shouted, banging his fist on the kitchen counter. “This is when poor Anthony sped his carriage to the club to tell me what had happened. I knew immediately I would have _some_ sort of apology to make to Mr. Ren, so I made Anthony take us back to his place. When we arrived, his valet told us he was not having visitors for the rest of the day. I implored him, explaining I needed to explain whatever rash behaviour you had exhibited, but he refused!”

Nothing my father was saying surprised me very much. 

“We rushed home, and now here were are, and I find you looking like a beggar, having a little rest in your bed no less!”

“Papa, can you please let me explain—”

“Yes, you certainly will explain yourself!” 

“Mr. Ren told me to leave!” I shouted back at him, frustrated that he was still interrupting me. “He made me repeat a piece a dozen times without saying a word and then told me to go! It was only half-past!”

“What on earth did you do to insult the man?” 

“What makes you think I did something to insult him? I was perfectly polite!”

My father laughed in disbelief. “Can you really be the judge of that?”

“Yes,” I retorted, “Because I was definitely less than polite after he ordered me to leave after that sorry excuse of a lesson.”

“You _what_?” 

“I did _everything_ the man told me to, and he still kicked me out. The most I could’ve done to offend him was playing badly. If that’s what inspired him to be short with me, then I feel that my reaction was completely warranted.”

His head fell into his hands. During my explanation, he had hobbled onto a chair. A bystander would think he was grieving over a loved one, which wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

“Papa,” I said, more softly now. “I didn’t mean to worry you or anger you. I really don’t know why he acted the way he did, but at least it’s all over now.”

“Oh no it isn’t,” he retorted immediately, his head shooting up from his hands. “You’ll be going to your next lesson.”

“Wait, what?” What on earth was he thinking?

“You will go to your next lesson, and you will apologize, and you will do better.”

“Papa, that’s rid—”

“You will practice all day every day until your next lesson since your musical skills were clearly lacking. You will be Mr. Ren’s student.”

My mouth hung open. Was he absolutely mad? Maybe his pride had really sent him over the edge.

“What if Mr. Ren doesn’t _want_ me as his student?”

“I’m paying him, aren’t I?” Papa stood up from his chair, suddenly invigorated by his plan. “As long as he has my money in his pocket, he will teach you.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” I said, still dumbfounded. 

“Now go, practice.” Father shooed me away. “Practice until your fingers are sore because you are going to your lesson next week. I’m going to ring Mr. Ren and settle this whole debacle.”

And with that, he was off into his den, shutting the door behind him. Nessa and Nancy were sitting on the steps, staring at me. 

“Are you okay?” Nessa asked.

“I suppose.”

The two of them got up and came over to give me a hug. Nancy sandwiched herself between Nessa and me, wrapping her arms around my waist. 

“You love the piano, so it will all be fine,” Nancy mumbled into my chest. The words brought a smile to my lips. 

I sincerely hoped she was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know to properly format chapters, hehe, I'm a fraud, please forgive me. I watched Rise of Skywalker yesterday to get inspired to write new chapters but all it did was made me cry and get really drunk. :)

_At least it’s sunny today._

I had repeated this thought the entire carriage ride over and was thinking it for one last time standing outside Mr. Ren’s door. Anthony sat at the driver’s seat of his carriage behind me — he had been instructed by my father to stay until I reemerged from my lesson. He gave me a slight wave when he noticed me looking back at him. At least he had been kind about the situation.

Turning back towards the door, I put my hand on the gold knocker and tapped it three times. A few moments later, Mr. Hux opened the door. He looked exactly like he did the week before, with the same sour expression on his face — as though my very presence was inconvenient. 

“Come in,” he said, so I stepped inside. My heartbeat began to quicken with the familiarity of the hallway and the smell of wood polish. Last week had been nerve-wracking and humiliating, and my hopes weren’t too high of today going too differently. Though I had practiced all week, I didn’t know how Mr. Ren would react to hearing me play, let alone having to see me again. My father never divulged the nature of their meeting; all he said was that the lesson was still on. Did Mr. Ren object? Did he tell my father what I said in anger as I left? I had so many questions that I knew would never be answered by either of them.

Mr. Hux led me to the large day room and opened the double doors in the same swift movement from the week before. It was brighter in here today. Large rectangles of light were cast unto the floor by the ceiling-length windows. The stark contrast of the black piano and illuminated wood floors created a dizzying effect. To my left, Mr. Ren sat in his chair. In the sunlight, his hair had warm brown highlights, giving out a completely different aura compared to the cold black I associated with him until today. A curl had fallen over his pale face — he was reading a large leather-bound book, a different book from the one I had seen him reading before. 

“The lady is here, sir,” stated Mr. Hux. I took a step inside the room, and he promptly closed the doors behind me. _Here we are again._

“Hello, Mr. Ren,” I said evenly. Best to test the waters before I commit to being polite — or horrible.

“Hello.”

His greeting caught me off guard, but he still didn’t look up from his book. Recalling his instructions from before I decided to take a seat at the piano bench, but facing him. We sat in silence for a good minute before he spoke again.

“I don’t know how you’ll manage to play, sitting like that.”

He looked up at me, and I felt the twinge of heat prickling at my cheeks. _I don’t know how you’ll manage to teach, sitting like that_ , I thought but bit my tongue to keep myself from mouthing off. Just because he was snide, didn’t mean I had to be.

“I was awaiting your instruction,” was my tamed response. 

“Right. I forgot my teaching skills were being put to the test.”

Thank goodness he wasn’t looking at me as he stood up because my mouth opened in shock. I swivelled quickly to face the piano — and away from his judging eyes — and put my hands on my lap. He was picking up the sheet music from our previous lesson, and a flood of relief rushed through my veins. I had been practicing Chopin’s first etude all week and could finally play it with measured confidence. When he placed the book on the music stand, he looked me straight in the eye. I felt like I could’ve shrivelled up under his gaze.

“Are you going to object to playing last week’s etude _again_?” he asked, his voice low. The way he had enunciated ‘again’ made a chill run down my spine; he had done that on purpose, obviously. Unwilling to show an ounce of fear, I sat up straight and shook my head.

“No objection.”

“Good,” he nodded, holding his stare for another moment before walking back to his chair. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Taking a deep breath, I raised my hands above the keys. I didn’t bother opening the book of songs — not to prove anything, but rather because I knew the sheet would only distract me. Having played the piece so much over the past six days, I had memorized it and could practically play it with my eyes closed. It was still technically difficult, but the workings of the etude were straightforward enough to remember. The reflexes of my fingers — my hand-eye coordination — were really the only things standing between me and perfecting this piece.

I played the etude, at tempo, and hit the last keys with a long sigh — I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath for the entire song. I had hit a few wrong keys, but for the most part, my arpeggios were crisp, chords solid. My fingers clenched into fists before they settled on either side of my thighs, and I awaited Mr. Ren’s reaction.

“Good,” he said, and my heart leapt up in my chest. _Approval?_ I thought, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. _He thought I was good!_

“You practiced.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” I said softly. Turning my head over to look at him, I added, “My father might have insisted on it.”

A huff of air came out of his nose. Was that the semblance of a laugh? His lips did not betray whatever emotion he may have been feeling.

“Alright. Play the next one.”

“The next one,” I repeated. Was that all he had to say? 

_Well, what did you expect?_

“Alright.” I finally said, opening the book of etudes and flipping the pages to the second song. The bars were filled with notes; and on the right hand again, too. _Chromatique_ was written at the top of the page, and a part of me relaxed because I had at least played chromatic scales before. The piece would be doable, but still tricky because of the technical preciseness required — it was an etude, after all. I studied the composition for a few minutes, taking in the key and time signature, testing it out in my mind. With the blueprints of a song lingering in my head, I placed my fingers on the keys.

Some painful minutes later, I finished the piece and bit my lip. It had been sloppy at best. Clunky was another word that came to mind. Chromatic scales were harder than I remembered. 

“You know the drill,” Mr. Ren said, breaking the silence. His tone was unreadable, but it didn’t feel malicious. Just… straightforward. Without looking back, I responded.

“Yes, sir.”

The next half hour or so was spent with me playing the piece over and over again. The progress was hardly noticeable, but it was there. Fewer mistakes, steadier pacing. The piece was nowhere near being performance-ready, but it at least was starting to sound like an actual song. When I rose my hands to play it for the twelfth time, Mr. Ren’s deep voice stopped me.

“Enough.”

This time, I turned to look at him. He was looking directly back at me, one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg. I found it strange how he could seem so casual and rigid at the same time.

“You’re progressing, albeit _very_ slowly.” The way he emphasized very made me frown. This habit of enunciating his disappointment was beginning to frustrate me. 

“Continue practicing the piece at home. As well as the first.”

“Will I be memorizing the entire book?”

“Is that a problem?” 

My lips pressed against each other into a line.

“No, sir.”

“The look on your face is telling me otherwise.”

“You’re mistaken.”

We stared at each other in a heavy silence. The only thing that indicated that he wasn’t a marble statue was the very slight and slow rise and fall of his chest. His shirt barely even wrinkled with the movement. Did physical perfection come naturally to him, or did he really put effort into seeming as inhuman as possible? The though inspired a question.

“Will you critique my playing?”

The slightest twitch of his eyebrow made my palms sweat.

“Is that what you want?” He asked.

_Is it what I want?_ I indeed wanted to learn, wanted to be good. It was one thing to learn a piece, but another thing to play it well. 

“I can’t be so good that my playing goes without criticism.”

“True,” was his instant response, and then he took a deep breath, “but can you handle it?” The severity of his dark gaze made my throat dry.

“I wouldn’t think a reason like that would stop you,” I retorted, a small bit of my irritation coming out with my words. Did he think he had been a joy up until now? 

“How do you treat your other students?”

“They do what I say.” For some reason, the way he said it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He tilted his head ever so slightly and continued: “Why? Do you think you’re an exception?”

“Of course not,” I muttered, heat prickling at my cheeks again. “I would just like some input.”

“So hasty,” he said as he stood from his chair. I kept on forgetting about his towering height because of how often he sat. If we stood next to each other, would the top of my head even reach his collar? With only a few strides, he reached the piano and plucked the sheet music with his arm stretching above my head. I twisted as he walked back to his chair, picking up a small pencil on his side table. 

“Come here.”

Confused, I gently pushed back the piano bench and got up as he did the opposite. Mr. Ren repositioned himself in the same solid but casual position from before and beckoned me forward with the end of the pencil without looking at me. _How long will it take for me to get used to his behaviour? Heaven help me._

Without a place to sit — unless I was considering his armrest, side table or lap, which I certainly was _not_ — I decided on standing by his side, looking over his shoulder at the book he was holding open.

“Here,” he said, circling a passage, “you play too quickly. And here,” he circled again, “you forget the rests, or just choose to ignore them.” His hand scribbled across the page as he went on. Things were either too fast, slow, uneven, or I was playing the wrong note, the wrong key, the wrong time signature, missing rests, ignoring dynamics… by the time he stopped talking, the pages were covered top to bottom with unreadable notes and sloppy circles. I gulped. I had asked for it, after all.

“That’s… helpful,” was all I managed to get out. My mind was still trying to retain what he had said about ten sentences ago.

“Take this home and copy the notes onto your own sheets. This is my copy.” Mr. Ren didn’t seem like the type who lent his things freely or happily, and the way he was gripping the edge of the book while shoving it at me indicated as much. “Bring it back next week in the _same condition_.”

“Yes, sir,” I said timidly, taking the other edge with both hands. He didn’t let go.

“Do not test my generosity.”

I had to choke down a laugh — that clearly wasn’t a word he often used either. I nodded solemnly, and he finally let go. It was sobering to think about just what the consequences would be for upsetting him. I almost wanted to refuse to take it, but I gathered that wouldn’t go too well either. Too afraid to look at his face, I kept staring at the book until he instructed me on what to do next. Except he didn’t. The silence was bordering unbearable as I stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say.

“So.” I blurted out, unable to take it any longer. I took this sudden burst of braveness as an opportunity to look up, too. He stared at me with such an intense gaze that it made me realize this was probably the closest I had been to him since meeting him. The irony was that we were practically eye-level. _Heavens, he is tall._

“So,” I said again, “do you…” Does he what? What on earth was I going to ask? The words were coming out of my mouth before I could formulate the sentences in my mind. Why hadn’t he asked me to leave yet? Why was I trying to find an excuse to extend my stay?

“Do I what?” His brows furrowed slightly.

Uh-oh. _Quick — think of something, you idiot._

“Do you perform often?”

A reasonable enough question to ask, I supposed. Not personal. Something a student would likely ask. Checking his face for validation, my confidence quickly dissipated; his eyes glazed over, and he suddenly seemed closed off. More than he usually did, anyway. 

“Not often.” 

I waited for more, but that was apparently it. Mr. Ren was staring out the window and had been for a while now. 

“Was that all?” he asked, picking up the novel on the side table and opening it in the middle. 

“O-Oh,” I stuttered, taken aback by his cold bluntness. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You may go then.”

He couldn’t have made it any clearer that the conversation was now over. In fact, it felt like I had already left with how much I was being ignored. I swallowed. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Silence. I walked over to the double doors and turned to look at him one last time. He was exactly as he was when I arrived; head tilted over his book, his black wavy hair like curtains on the sides of his face. He flipped a page and shook a bang away from over his eyes. 

“I’ll… I’ll see you next week, then?” It came out as more of a question than I wanted it to. 

“Mm.” 

_I think that’s the most I’m going to get out of him at this point._ Admitting my small defeat, I clutched the handle and said my farewell.

“Goodbye, Mr. Ren.”

Leaving his house felt awkward. It was a small comfort to see Anthony sitting there, waiting for me. He nodded his head at me when he noticed me approaching.

“Did you have a good lesson, miss?”

“Define ‘good,’” I replied, taking a deep breath and hugging Mr. Ren’s book of sheet music to my chest. Anthony gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Shall we take you home, then?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Anthony.”

Even those few words of friendly banter were enough to lift my spirits. It really put into perspective just how curt Mr. Ren was with our interactions. Was he that way with everyone? Most likely — it’s not like I had done anything to be on his bad side; well, at least not before he initially treated me with such disdain.

Stepping into the small opening of the carriage, I let myself forget about Mr. Ren. I wouldn’t have to worry about upsetting him for a whole week now, which left me plenty of time to practice and spend time with my loving sisters. I looked at the book in my hands, and felt a small pang in my chest — perhaps it would be a little more difficult to stop thinking about him than I thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was my favourite chapter to write so far, I hope y'all enjoy it! <3 here are the two new songs mentioned if you'd like to listen along:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/5SnRQXCxDTeRPARlqZt14s?si=wSnNUlSLRJG4OvPeacm0Pg  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/2ZPc1I6LjiLZbNQyJzIjNI?si=WoaIaiDcREyzYzuVxjJIWg

The week flew by without my noticing it. I had spent the entire time practicing the two pieces I had played so far in my lessons, much to everyone else’s frustration. On the first day, the pieces we “a delight to listen to,” but it didn’t take too long before Nancy was begging for me to play _anything_ else. Nessa was a little kinder with her criticism, blaming Mr. Ren for the pieces rather than me. Father kept his lips sealed shut, though the look on his face betrayed his desire to hide how crazy all the practicing was driving him. The last thing he wanted to be was a hypocrite.

For me, on the other hand, playing the pieces again and again just became routine. Each new time I’d play the piece, I’d solve a mistake I’d made from the time before. It was satisfying to hear my progress, despite how slow it was. I had dutifully copied Mr. Ren’s notes onto my own sheets — I had spent hours deciphering what he had scribbled — and left his copy safe and untouched on top of the piano. If there was one thing I wasn’t willing to risk, it was incurring the wrath of that man. If his “cordial” self was already so sour, one could only imagine what he was like when he was angry.

I placed the book — as well as my own — in my leather satchel and looped the strap over my shoulder. Per my father’s request, I was wearing my nicest dresses to my lessons: today was a peach-coloured one with some tasteful lace around the collar and wrists. I wasn’t one to wear lighter fabrics because of my _laissez-faire_ attitude towards clothing and appearance, but I had to admit that it was quite pretty. It reminded me of a doll’s dress, which hopefully made me look like less of a threat and more like something delicate. A grown man wouldn’t pick a fight with a proper lady, would he? 

“All ready, miss?”

Anthony opened the carriage door for me when I stepped out of the house. I was grateful that it was another sunny day. Autumn was starting to settle in, and I shivered at the thought of the nightmarish weather that would soon be upon us.

“I hope so,” I replied. The driver smiled and took my hand to help me inside.

The ride today helped calm my nerves. Because of the beautiful weather, people were strolling about before their afternoon tea. Children were running after each other in a game of chase, their nannies on the outskirts keeping a watchful eye. The peaceful atmosphere made me smile; were it not for my lesson, I would be out there doing the same as everyone else. Perhaps Nancy and Nessa would join me for a walk when I got back, and we could have some tea and cake in the garden. My stomach gurgled in agreement. I began to wonder when I last ate but had my thoughts cut short when the carriage came to a halt. I took a deep breath and exited.

“Thank you, Anthony. I’ll see you in a bit.” I waved as I walked up Mr. Ren’s steps, and Anthony waved back. My father’s demand to have him wait for me originally frustrated me, but I now found myself glad that a friendly face was nearby.

I had barely knocked when Mr. Hux opened the door. He was frowning so hard that his red brows were practically knit together.

“Oh,” I said, surprised by his abrupt appearance. 

“Yes,” he muttered, “well, come in.”

Once the door was shut behind me, I noticed how dark the hallway was. None of the lamps were lit, making the only light coming from the small window beside the door. It gave me a strange feeling that I shouldn’t be there.

“Mr. Hux…” I hesitated, unsure of how blunt I could be with my discomfort. “Is everything alright?”

He grunted in response and led me down the hallway to the piano room. The doors were closed as they usually were, but no light streaked out from beneath them. The oddities were beginning to stack up, sparking my desire to leave. Mr. Hux knocked on the door — something he had not done before, having always opened them right away — and spoke matter-of-factly.

“Sir, the young miss is here.” He paused. “For her lesson,” he added, as though he needed to clarify.

No noise came from the other side of the doors. 

“Mr. Hux,” I whispered, “should I perhaps come back next week?”

The butler rolled his eyes, clearly getting agitated. He grumbled something unintelligible about a “fit” and shook his head. Grasping both knobs in his hands, he pulled the doors open.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did come to focus, I saw that the room was an absolute mess. Papers and books littered the floor — not in neat piles, but like they had been thrown. Many of the sheets were crumpled up, some torn, and some just ripped to shreds. All the books were open in a way that made them look abandoned, with pages crinkled and folded from what I assumed was their turbulent journey to the floor.

My eyes continued to scan the room, and I saw that it was much more than papers and books that had been thrown about. The piano bench was on its side near the wall, one of the lounge chairs was upside down on the floor, and the side table where Mr. Ren usually placed the book he was reading was broken in half, splintered legs jutting into the air like spikes. A teacup and saucer were also on the floor near the table, the liquid contents forming a small puddle under the shattered china; some sheets of paper close to the mess had gotten soggy and see-through. The ink was bleeding across the pages like an ugly stain. _What on earth_ … I was starting to wonder what the hell was going on when I spotted Mr. Ren, standing behind the chair he usually sat in. His hands were gripping the top of the back, fingers clenched so tightly that they looked bluish-white. I couldn’t see his face because his head was tilted forward, black hair obscuring his features. The shirt he was wearing was limp and wrinkled, as though he had worn it to bed — and then some. Before I could even comprehend what I was looking at, Mr. Hux cleared his throat.

“Sir,” he said, staring at the huddled over figure across the room. Mr. Ren didn’t speak or move.

“Bloody child,” Mr. Hux mumbled, and then promptly left the room, closing the doors and leaving me alone with the silent man in the corner. _Wait a minute. What was he expecting me to do in this situation? Did he really just leave without giving me any explanation or help whatsoever?_ I looked at Mr. Ren and couldn’t help but feel slightly distressed. Had he caused this mess himself? Did someone attempt to rob him? Surely he wouldn’t have carried on with our lesson if someone had, but then again, Mr. Hux practically threw me in here without a hint Mr. Ren’s approval.

Unsure of what I should say — or even could say, in this situation — I took a few silent steps into the room and softly put my bag on the floor. With my eye still on Mr. Ren, I crouched down and began gathering the scattered papers. He still hadn’t moved, and I had no intention of making him, so I finally looked down at my hands and started putting the pages into a pile. At some point, I got on all fours because it was easier than scooting around in a squatted position. I gathered the books into a few piles and then the sheets of paper beside them. Though I was trying to be as quiet as possible, I did make a bit of sound when flattening out the crumpled papers. Other than that, however, I went on with my tidying in silence, choosing to just leave Mr. Ren be. I wasn’t doing anything that he could justifiably complain about, so I didn’t worry about the consequences of touching his things without his permission. I even made sure to find and pick up all the pieces of torn paper to collect into a little pile of its own, though I’m sure it contained more than a few different sheets. 

I got quite close to him when picking up the shards of porcelain beside his chair, but I was careful not to look up. If he was going to ignore me, I would ignore him right back. Not out of anger, but rather some sort of respect for whatever he was going through at the moment. I didn’t think he’d take too kindly to an attempt at friendly banter or probing questions. When I gathered up the splintered pieces of the side table into my arms and brought them to the room’s entrance, I saw Mr. Ren wordlessly take a seat in his chair out of the corner of my eye. My quick glance wasn’t thorough enough to reveal his face, and at this point, I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to make eye contact with the man. Leaving the broken table in a little heap next to the doors, I dusted my hands on my skirt and looked about the room — making sure to avoid looking at Mr. Ren. I had managed to tidy up most things into piles and return a few chairs upright. All that was left was the piano bench, so I picked up my bag and walked over to it. When it was back on its legs, I sat down and pulled Mr. Ren’s book out, placing it unopened on top of the piano. 

I’m not quite sure why I decided to just start playing. With how silent the room and heavy the atmosphere was, it almost felt like the natural thing to do. Instead of using one of the two pieces I had been furiously practicing all week, I chose one of my personal favourites: Claude Debussy’s _Rêverie_. The intensity of the etudes didn’t feel appropriate for the situation, which is why _Rêverie_ was a perfect substitute. Calm and sweeping and flowing, like slow waves of the sea coming up to kiss the shore. With every note played, I could feel myself beginning to relax. I had discovered this piece when the piano tuner came over a few years ago; after spending a few hours tinkering underneath the piano, he played this wonderful song that took my breath away. I implored him for details and the sheets, which he generously recreated by hand from his own copy. Those pages were well-loved and tucked away safely in the bookcase at home, more of a beloved keepsake at this point than actual reference. It was one of the kindest gifts I had ever received. Perhaps some of that joy would come out in my playing today for the man who seemed to never be joyful about anything.

When I finished playing, I let out a little sigh and placed my hands on my lap. Reality slowly began to set in again, and I started to panic — _now what? How many seconds had it been since I finished the song? Should I say something? Should I look at him?_ My mind raced. I opened my mouth to break the silence, but the man behind me beat me to it.

“What was that?”

Oh, god. My stomach clenched in fear. Is he upset?

“It’s called _Rêverie_. It’s by Claude Debussy.” I gulped halfway through my explanation because my throat had instantly become dry. I waited for him to respond. He didn’t. I kept my feet planted to the ground to keep myself from bolting out the door.

“It’s one of my favourite pieces,” I continued, too uncomfortable with the silence to let it hang. “I thought… I thought I would play it.”

“You thought you would play it.” Mr. Ren repeated. As always, his tone kept his emotions a mystery. Staring at the keys like they were capable of hiding me, I laced my fingers together.

“Yes, sir.”

More silence. My neck felt like it was on fire. What kind of expression was he making? I didn’t dare look. _Should I apologize?_ Just the thought of saying “sorry” for something as harmless as playing the piano made me grimace. This man made me think of stupid things. A little flame called anger ignited in my chest, and I felt ready to make a grand exit when my thoughts were once again interrupted.

“Bring the sheets next week. Assuming you have them.”

Shock made me swivel around to look at him. He looked like he usually did, as though our lesson had started on a very ordinary note: his face placid, hair in beautiful waves around his head, and one leg crossed over the other. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Now play the pieces you’re _actually_ supposed to play.” He raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod to the book on the piano, causing me to bite the insides of my cheeks. Despite my indignation towards his character, I couldn’t help but feel obedient to this man. I turned back on the bench and faced the keys. The awkwardness from when I first entered the room had vanished entirely, and I felt like I was simply at another ordinary lesson. Getting to play the pieces I had so diligently practiced all week made me smile; though I still had some errors peppered throughout, I felt confident with my abilities and audible progress. 

“Alright. Now play the third.”

Without missing a beat, I picked up his book of etudes and opened it to the third as instructed. A softer and calmer piece than the previous two, I felt more at ease sight-reading this one. It was called _Tristesse_ : ‘sadness’, in French. The bittersweet melancholy of the melody made my heart swell. It reminded me of _Rêverie_ , and as the technical difficulty increased with the rise of the song, my heart began to ache instead. I couldn’t do the piece much justice — but I could already feel the heaviness within its notes. When I finished, I didn’t wait for Mr. Ren to say his most popular word during our lessons; I played it again, and then again, on and on until he finally instructed me to stop. My hands were sore, and my chest felt heavy. It occurred to me now that I had played a lot today, and that an hour had probably passed by since my arrival. 

“Any notes for today?” I asked, picking up my bag beside the bench. “I brought my own book, so I wouldn’t have to borrow yours again.”

“Of course there are notes,” he responded, as though I was an idiot for even asking. Perhaps I was. “Come here.”

I did as I was told. Mr. Ren’s hand reached out to where his side table usually was, but of course, came up empty. This elicited a swear from under his breath. _Oh_ , I thought, _he’s looking for his pencil_. Eyes roaming the floor, I looked to see if I could find it. I hadn’t seen it when I was initially cleaning.

“Maybe it’s under your chair?” I wondered aloud. 

He got up, and for the first time since meeting him, we were standing side by side. I had been right before: my head did barely reach his neck. I took a step back so I could look at him without straining myself. I hated to admit it to myself, but he was even more handsome up close. He was broad and sturdy but in an inexplicably elegant way. I could see the few freckles and moles on his pale face, and how some of them even trailed down his neck. His shirt was buttoned up to the top, of course, but I wondered if they trailed down even further. _Alright_ , I caught myself immediately, chastising my roaming mind: _that thought needs to stop right there_. But I couldn’t help myself, there was just something so alluring about him. If it weren’t for his cold personality, I could even see myself falling for him.

Mr. Ren pulled the large chair to the side with a jerk, and I peeked around him to see if my suspicions had been right. There, along with some extra china pieces, was the lost pencil. He crouched down and swept it up, quickly pushing the chair back into place. _What about the broken china pieces?_ … I thought, but clearly, he didn’t give a damn. _Did he give a damn about any of the stuff that littered the floor when I got here?_ If he did, there was certainly no indication on his face or through his actions. I looked at the stacks of papers and books I had piled up next to the armoire while he took his seat. There was an itching curiosity at the back of my mind for why things had ended up that way, and especially why he had said nothing about it. 

The double doors suddenly swung open, causing Mr. Ren and me to look up in surprise. Mr. Hux was standing there, his massive frown ever so present.

“Your _driver_ is here,” he said, staring daggers at me. “He’s asked if you’ve finished yet.”

“Oh, well—”

Mr. Ren interrupted my embarrassed stuttering. 

“We’re not done here. Tell him to wait.”

The butler looked at his master for a moment, squinting his eyes. I could tell he was editing his response before opening his mouth.

“ _Fine_.” 

The man promptly closed the doors. I could hear him walk down the hall — it wasn’t quite a stomp, but it definitely was not a happy gait.

“He doesn’t like my being here very much, does he?”

Mr. Ren ignored my question. Unsurprising, given the question could easily apply to him as well. He sat down in his chair and flipped open my sheet music, resting it on his crossed knee. 

“Do you have many students?” 

“A few,” he replied, writing something in the margin of the page. I waited for him to elaborate, but quickly remembered he wasn’t the elaborative sort. 

“Are we all learning Chopin’s etudes?”

“No.”

I took a steadying breath. He made the pleasure of conversation into a gruelling sport.

“What are you teaching them, then?”

He kept on writing in my book. I watched from behind his shoulder, his large hand travelling across the page in graceful sweeps. It seemed that question would go unanswered, too.

“Do your other students perform?”

“Sometimes.” He closed the book and handed it to me. “Why; are you already seeking the stage?”

I chuckled. “Absolutely not. No amount of money or persuasion could ever make me perform for the public.”

“And yet you’re taking lessons,” he remarked, standing as I walked over to retrieve my book bag. 

“Because I enjoy playing.” I thought for a moment. “But also because my father likely wants me to be more marriageable than I currently am.”

Mr. Ren went silent. I had to refrain from rolling my eyes — of course, talking about anything involving human interaction or intimacy would make him shut down. 

“On that note, I’ll take my leave.” Better to excuse myself before he could kick me out again.

“Fine,” he responded. He stood awkwardly in front of his chair, and we looked at each other for just a moment too long. I averted my eyes and rushed to the door, nearly knocking over a pile of books on my way over. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Ren.”

“Yes.”

I waited until I was out the front door before letting out an exasperated sigh. Despite hardly exchanging more than fifty words between the two of us, I felt mentally exhausted. It was so challenging to keep up with him — his way of acting, talking, responding. What had that whole mess been about, too? His skills in ignoring what he didn’t want to talk about were astounding, to the point that I almost believed his complete apathy towards everything. Almost. There had to have been some ounce of emotion behind that cold face of his to have caused so much destruction… assuming it had been done by him. I had a strong feeling it had.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted, miss.” Anthony pushed off the carriage, which he had been leaning on. “You were in there for much longer than your previous lessons.”

“It’s alright, Anthony. Thank you for checking in,” I gave him a smile, which he returned. “My repertoire is growing, so there’s more to play through.” I decided to forgo mentioning the mess and awkwardness that preceded the playing. 

“I see! I’d love to hear you play, miss. Are you enjoying your lessons?”

I smirked. Could “enjoyment” be used to describe how I felt towards my sessions with Mr. Ren?

“My lessons are… interesting.” 

Anthony gave me a look but shrugged it off as I climbed into the cabin of the carriage. I knew his loyalties were with my father instead of me, so any information shared with him would inevitably lead back to my father. No, I’d save the gossip for my sisters.


	6. Chapter 6

“Please sit down, Nancy. You’re making me nervous.”

“Finephf,” our little sister muttered through a mouthful of cake, crumbs flying past her parted lips. Nessa made a sound of disgust, and I couldn’t help but laugh. No matter how many times we sat down for tea, Nancy always ended up wandering about the room with her dessert in her hand. 

“Go back to what you were saying, dear. About Mr. Ren.”

I raised my eyebrows at Nessa and smiled into my teacup. Because I had arrived later than usual after my lesson the day before, father was already home. I told him the abridged version of what happened — _“We went over a few extra pieces today.”_ — but I made sure to give Nessa a wink to indicate there was a lot more to tell. Nancy quickly caught on and begged us on our way to bed to wait until tea today to tell the story.

“Well,” I started again, putting my cup down. “Even though we heard no reply from him, the valet opened the doors to the room and practically shoved me inside. The place looked like it had been caught in the path of a tornado.”

“ _No!_ ” Nessa breathed, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. 

“ _Yes_. Books and papers were everywhere; furniture was overturned and even broken. It was an absolute mess.”

“Do you think someone robbed him?” Nancy asked, taking a seat beside Nessa on the lounge chair. The eldest pulled a napkin from the table and placed it on Nancy’s dirty hands. 

“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “Surely, our lesson would have been cancelled because of the panic. Anyway, Mr. Ren was hunched over his chair in the corner, silent, and the valet left out of frustration.”

I went on detailing what had happened the previous afternoon, my sisters probing me with questions at every turn of the story. Their reactions were priceless — and almost made the awkwardness of the whole thing worth it. If anything, my interactions with Mr. Ren had at least been of great entertainment to them. In terms of my musical advancement, however… that was a separate issue altogether. 

“I can’t believe you cleaned,” Nancy muttered, serving herself another slice of cake. “I would have left.”

“We know you would have,” Nessa responded, tutting at Nancy’s second helping. “I think our sister did the right thing. Very polite. Father would be proud.”

I rolled my eyes. If only father knew the trouble I’ve been going through to seem like a respectable lady. Mr. Ren had the unique ability of getting on my last nerve, but I had been able to _mostly_ restrain myself up until now. I wouldn’t have lasted this long if not for the fact that I could potentially be disowned for my disreputable behaviour. 

“It’s a little daunting stepping up to that room every week, not knowing what to expect.” I spooned some extra sugar in my tea and swirled it around. “At this rate, who knows what I’ll happen across?”

“You don’t feel as though you’re in any danger, do you?”

I scoffed at Nessa’s concerned expression.

“Not really. I’d be more concerned if I was a side table.”

We continued to gossip and giggle well into the afternoon, filling ourselves with many slices of cake and several pots of tea. It was a weekly tradition for us to spend a day together, uninterrupted by our father or chores. Like any siblings, we certainly had the ability to get on each other’s nerves, but we were always able to put aside our differences for tea. In the earlier years, it had just been Nessa and me; because of our mother’s passing, she had become the motherly one at quite an early age. When Nancy’s mother came into the picture, the two of us had already bonded and weren’t willing to open our small circle with anyone else — that was, of course, until Nancy came along. Though her mother left as quickly as she had arrived, little Nancy soon became a permanent addition to our family. Nessa and I were only ten and twelve, but being no strangers to what it was like to grow up without a mother, we accepted the baby with open arms. Father had never directly expressed his gratitude, but we knew how thankful he was that the three of us took care of each other. We could only imagine the heartache of losing two wives in one lifetime — it was probably akin to the pain of losing a mother — and thus never gave him too much of a hard time for his shortfalls as a single father. He tried his best, but three girls were quite a handful for any man.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I proposed, setting my dish on the table. The lump of cake in my stomach felt about as heavy as an anchor. “I’ve eaten enough to feed an army.”

“Let’s!” Nessa agreed. We collected our dishes and brought them to the kitchen. We’d clean them later, of course, but for now, we were anxious to carry on with our carefree day together. Father wouldn’t be home until late, anyway. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

The three of us left the house arm-in-arm, like we always did, and meandered towards the southern street where the creek was. Sunny autumn days like this were my favourite; everything tinted with an orange glow, with just the right amount of a breeze to keep you cool but not chilly. The leaves on the trees would flicker in the wind, detaching during a stronger gust to find themselves scattered on the cobblestone. We walked over them with a satisfying _crunch_.

Because it was nearing the evening, people were walking to and fro, going home after a day at work or the club. Others were on their way out, perhaps to have an early dinner or to attend a fancy soiree. With no particular destination in mind, we chose to loop around the neighbourhood and look in store windows. There was _Rose’s Apothecary,_ a favourite of Nessa’s for her wide selection of dried flowers; _Humbert’s Fine Dresses_ , where the three of us exclusively did our dress-shopping; and _Sweetie’s Sweets_ , Nancy’s personal favourite. However, my favourite of all the shops was _Mr. Darcy’s Library_ : a little shop that sold books and sheet music. The shop owner — Mr. Darcy, of course — and I were very well-acquainted, seeing as I spent most of my small earnings there. He would always set aside a book or a song that he thought would appeal to me, being the one person who knew my tastes better than anyone else. My latest acquisition was Beethoven’s _Piano Sonata No. 17 in D minor_. The song was beautifully structured like all of Beethoven’s works; Nessa and I had the pleasure of seeing one of his symphonies in concert a few months back. 

“Do you want to go in?” Nessa asked, noticing my lingering gaze on the storefront. I hadn’t realized that I had stopped walking.

“If you don’t mind — I can meet you two at the sweet shop.”

“Good,” Nancy interjected, “I don’t like that stinky store.”

“Be quiet before I reconsider buying you _another_ treat.” Nessa’s stern gaze softened when Nancy blinked up at her puppy-like eyes, hands clasped together like a cherub. 

“I’ll meet you there,” I called after them as they skipped — well, Nancy skipped, and Nessa was dragged along — towards the store at the end of the street. 

With the two of them taken care of, I stepped into Mr. Darcy’s. The little brass bell on top of the door jingled as I walked in, and the sound brought a smile to my face. I looked at the wooden counter near the entrance where the owner usually stood, but he wasn’t there. Other than the chime of my arrival, the store was absolutely quiet.

“Hello?” 

“Hello?” A distracted voice echoed from further inside the store. The aisles of shelves and bookcases obstructed them from my view.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Just a minute,” he responded, voice lowering to an unintelligible register, as though he was talking to someone. I shrugged and perused the shelf of new arrivals near the front counter. Examining the names of the various composers, I picked up a small stack by Erik Satie titled _3_ _Gnossiennes_. I flipped through its pages and tried to imagine the piece in my mind. Simple, delicate, but slightly off-putting, there was no way I was going to leave the store without it.

“Ah, hello, dear.”

Mr. Darcy appeared behind me, followed by a man I immediately recognized.

“Mr. Hux!” I exclaimed, unable to hide my surprise.

“You.”

His blatant irritation at seeing me made me frown. Did no one ever teach him he could do well with masking some of his emotions?

“I take it the two of you are acquainted?” Mr. Darcy was attempting to hide a smile. _See?_ I thought. _Even_ he’s _trying_.

“We’ve met a few times at Mr. Ren’s place. I’m taking lessons with him now.”

“Are you now? Well, that’s fantastic!” 

He actually seemed sincere. 

“Have you had the pleasure of meeting him, sir?”

“Yes, quite a few times, actually.” Mr. Darcy motioned towards Mr. Hux. “Though I usually deal with Hux here for most of his requests.”

Mr. Hux stood frozen, doing quite an astonishing impersonation of a marble column.

His scrunched face was as scrunched up as the papers he was holding.

“What is Mr. Ren playing these days?” I teased. “Or is it a secret?”

“Oh, those are blank, for him to fill out. But it’s hardly a secret since he’ll be playing a concert tomorrow night!” Mr. Darcy replied while Mr. Hux sent invisible daggers at him with his eyes. I bit my lip to stifle a laugh.

“He’s having a concert?” I tried to sound as naive as possible, channelling some of Nancy’s energy. “That sounds lovely!” 

“You didn’t know?”

Of course I hadn’t known about it. Why would Mr. Ren have shared that with me? I hadn’t even heard him play before. Perhaps he only did it for paying customers. 

“It must have slipped his mind,” I offered, smiling at the valet. The muscles in his jaw were flexing beneath his pale skin. 

“Well, would you like to accompany me tomorrow evening?” The owner of the store proposed quite abruptly, catching both Mr. Hux and me off guard. “My wife was originally going to attend, but she’s fallen ill. You may have her seat if you’re so inclined.”

Good old Mr. Darcy, bless his heart. He either couldn’t tell that Mr. Hux was having a fit beside him or ignored it. One way or the other, I was pleased.

“That’s incredibly generous of you, sir. I would be honoured to attend in your wife’s stead.”

“It’s settled, then!” He clapped his hands together, squeezing them like he had just made a good deal with himself. “Hux, why don’t I ring you through here, and you can be on your way to deliver Ren his sheets.”

“Right,” the valet muttered, the word dry and resentful. With a last disappointed glare in my direction, he joined Mr. Darcy at the counter. Was it possible for him to have shrunken a bit since the beginning of our interaction?

Though I had been more than willing to accept the invitation when Mr. Darcy offered it, I found myself wondering how I truly felt about attending Mr. Ren’s concert. I’d been curious about his playing ever since before becoming one of his students, and naturally, I was still anxious to see him perform. However, the fact that he was always so evasive and had chosen not to tell me of his upcoming show made me feel like I was doing something impolite. Considering how Mr. Hux had reacted to the conversation, I couldn’t imagine Mr. Ren feeling much better about it. If I knew any better, it would seem as though my presence was unwanted at the concert. 

To hell with him, then. What harm could come from me hearing him play? He was my teacher, after all. How could I trust him with my musical future if I didn’t experience the calibre of his playing for myself? The more I thought about it, the more I dug myself into a hole of frustrated defiance; there was no way I would pass an opportunity to hear Mr. Ren play, especially if there was an added bonus of him not knowing about it. The mischievous fire in my heart crackled. 

The familiar bell over the door chimed as Mr. Hux hurried out, and I joined Mr. Darcy at the counter. 

“Pleasant fellow, isn’t he?”

The owner chuckled. “An interesting one, for sure.”

I placed the booklet I was holding in front of him, and he swivelled it around to read the title.

“Ah, Satie. I thought you might be interested in him.” He disappeared behind his desk for a moment and popped back up with a book. “I also thought you might enjoy this.”

It was a thick, hardcover book. Engraved in a golden type was the title _Villette_ , and underneath, _Charlotte Brontë_.

“A new Brontë?” I exclaimed, grabbing it greedily. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent. That’ll be a shilling.”

“You undercharge me, as always.” I fished out a coin from the purse in my pocket. 

“I expect you to pay me back with your lovely playing, that’s all.” 

Placing the coin in his open palm, I gathered my new book and sheet music under my arm. The man was a sweet-talker, but it felt warm like a doting uncle. 

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at six o’clock. Does that sound alright?”

“It sounds perfect. I look forward to it, Mr. Darcy.”

“Likewise, my dear.” 

———

The concert hall was unlike any place I’d ever been to.

After a short ride in Mr. Darcy’s carriage, the two of us emerged into a sea of people milling about in front of the massive building. Everyone was dressed to the nines: crisp black suits, shiny bow-ties, sparkling dresses and long silky gloves. I was glad I had an evening gown prepared; the rest of my wardrobe would have been sorely lacking compared to everyone else. My dress was a deep emerald green, covered in a sheer black fabric that glistened under the street lamps. Nessa and Nancy had helped me by pinning my hair to my head with pretty little barrettes, giving me an air of aristocracy that was completely fabricated. The last time I had been so fancied up was when I had joined Father at one of his business parties — it had been so dull that I had fallen asleep in a chair reading Pushkin.

Mr. Darcy and I made our way inside and were greeted by a beautifully illuminated room. The ceiling was maybe three stories above us, with a massive chandelier hanging in the middle of it. There must have been a thousand little pieces of crystal strung to it, and each piece glinted a rainbow of colours. I nearly tripped over my skirt from staring up at it for so long. 

“Careful, dear,” Mr. Darcy cautioned, catching hold of my arm. “We don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Right,” I laughed, “I’m just so amazed.” 

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

It really was. The other music hall that I had been to before was nothing like this one. Beautiful, sure, but not on the otherworldly scale of this place.

“Let’s find our seats, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

On our way to the stairs leading up to the balcony, a server passed by with a silver platter holding glasses of champagne. Mr. Darcy swiped two glasses and gave a nod to the man, who nodded back and sauntered away. My companion handed me the drink, and I took it happily, excited to try what was sure to be the best champagne of my life. The golden liquid effervesced as it coated my tongue, bursts of flavour causing my cheeks to tingle. I took another sip as we climbed the stairs. Despite the tiny amount I had swallowed, my head grew a little warm from the alcohol. Mr. Darcy held the balcony door open for me, and I stepped inside.

If the reception area had been enough to shock me when we arrived, the main hall nearly knocked me off my feet. The ceiling in there was even higher, and also domed, mimicking a cathedral. Everything was adorned, every piece purposeful as much as it was decorative; the columns on the perimeter of the room like that of ancient Rome, with the capitals of each carved so intricately it must have taken years to make them all. There was so much gold, white, and navy blue that my eyes were spinning, trying to take everything in at once. The wide stage was at the very back of the room, with only a grand piano sitting in the very centre. Behind it on the wall were massive silver pipes for an organ that was hidden somewhere behind the curtained partitions. Candelabras were on every wall, their flames glinting off of every polished surface. It was like I had walked into the palace of the gods.

“Wow,” was all I was able to say. Mr. Darcy laughed from beside me.

“Indeed. Here we are.” He pointed to two chairs beside the railing of the balcony. I sat down, feeling weightless. Without realizing it, I took another sip of my champagne. 

“The view is excellent,” I breathed.

“My position as his musical supplier has its benefits.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but I’m no longer sorry that your wife couldn’t make it.” 

Mr. Darcy choked on his drink. 

“I will neglect to tell her that.”

“I appreciate it.” 

The hall started to swell with the noise of chatter, people streaming in through the doors on the main floor. Others began to sit around Mr. Darcy and I, speaking quietly amongst themselves. The excitement was tangible. Within minutes, the two-hundred or so seats were filled. It wasn’t long before a short man in tails walked across the stage, met by the audience’s clapping hands.

“Hello and welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you, thank you.” He waved his hands, and the clapping slowly subsided. 

“I’m so pleased that all of you could join us this wonderful evening for a night of beautiful piano music performed by the one-and-only Kylo Ren.”

Another round of applause. I sipped my wine.

“Yes, we are lucky to have such a master of the ivories with us tonight. A very special treat indeed. But I digress — you didn’t come here to listen to me babble. So without further ado, it is my utmost pleasure to present to you: Kylo Ren.”

The hall erupted with applause again, amplified when a tall figure stepped out from behind the curtain and walked briskly across the stage. My breath caught in my throat. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was just introduced, I wouldn’t have recognized him: his black hair was slicked back and styled, his suit was freshly pressed, and his overall demeanour just oozed professionality. Even though I was so far away, I felt like I had never seen his face so clearly. His eyes seemed darker in contrast to his pale face, his lips pinker. The only thing that was undoubtedly the same as our lessons was his stern, cold expression. Somehow — my obvious guess was with the change of attire and grooming — he was much more handsome than I had previously remembered. A deep warmth curled through my stomach, and I gulped down another mouthful of champagne. _Bloody hell_. 

Mr. Ren seated himself at the piano bench, adjusting the tails of his suit with a swish of his hand. The room went silent — so silent that I think most of us were holding our breath. I knew I was. I didn’t even get the chance to remind myself to breathe because when he played the explosive first notes, I gasped. 

In all my years of playing and listening to others play the piano, I had never heard anything like it. It was fast, intense — _emotional_. It was like I had been swept up into a storm, being pelted by rain and hail and winds from all directions. Mr. Ren’s hands moved so quickly they were a blur, and his face was set in concentration. The rapid movements made a strand of hair free itself from its hold, and it danced across his face as he played. Mesmerized, I didn’t realize he had finished the first piece until he paused and changed to a minor key. This one was slow, anguished, his body swaying with the crescendos and diminuendos, as though it were becoming one with the piano. I had never seen him like this before. It’s like his entire personality changed once he was at the keys — gone was the stiff, expressionless husk of my teacher. What, or rather _who_ I saw before me was actually a human being. _He’s so... beautiful._ I couldn’t keep my eyes off of any aspect of him: his face, his long nose, his round ears, the stern line of his lips, or how they parted slightly when he played a soft note, his dextrous hands, the long and languid curve of his back. The music he was creating became a facet of his being. In combination with his appearance and the wine in my belly, I was mentally swept off my feet into a dream state of bliss. 

Being so enraptured by the man I thought I knew and his magical abilities with the piano, I didn’t notice the time pass. When the room broke out into roaring applause with shouts of _bravos_ and _amazings,_ I was shaken out of my daze. _It’s over?_ I looked to my left and saw Mr. Darcy standing and clapping his large hands together. I stumbled out of my chair to join him, a little wobbly on my feet. At some point, I must have put down my glass because it was no longer in my hands. 

“Well?” Mr. Darcy asked, looking at me after his final clap. The sound of acclaims had finally died down, and Mr. Ren was no longer on the stage.

“I…” I started, but couldn’t get further than that.

My companion laughed and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Yes, he can have that effect.” 

Blinking up at him, I opened my mouth again and tried to form a full sentence.

“People weren’t exaggerating.”

“Not when it comes to him, no.” Mr. Darcy held out his elbow, and I wrapped my hand around his arm, letting myself be guided by him to the exit.

“He wrote all of that himself?” I wondered incredulously, bracing myself by putting my free hand on the bannister. 

“Yes. Or so they say.” Mr. Darcy glanced sideways at me. “Why? Do you find his genius hard to believe?”

“No, it’s not that… it’s more that I’m surprised that such depth can come from such a seemingly cold person.” 

He laughed at my honest review.

“He’s an interesting fellow, for sure. Mr. Ren is full of surprises.”

I thought about the playing I just witnessed: the sounds, the otherworldly melodies, the resonant harmonies. I thought about how dignified and elegant he looked, how passionate he seemed during the rise of a piece. How his hard features softened under the glow of candlelight and through the touch of the keys, the music flowing through him like an entity. Most of all, however, I thought of how desperately I was looking forward to my next lesson with him, and what he could possibly surprise me with then.

“Yes,” I said calmly, looking past the crowd and off into the distance of the night. “He certainly is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so much time daydreaming about this chapter that I neglected to write anything new this week lol. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoy imaging it! 
> 
> P.S. for the concert, I saw Ren playing Rachmaninoff's 13 Preludes, op. 32. Rachmaninoff's vibe in general makes me think of Kylo. <3 I really love Dossin's rendition of these preludes (and it's what I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter), so here's a link to the album:  
> https://open.spotify.com/album/3OuvmbEJk9Ykk3wSRmYvqS?si=36umpOc4T4ipvP95Glm3uQ
> 
> The other piece mentioned + the piece(s) you buy in the store:  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/6jr3vp0bvReFopo3QRpik6?si=yDRwLRpmQYuqqwyma1INVg  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/6zv8B4wCkjnYu3HIIPZOFh?si=waakxxp5S_CrtGHWZlz5QA  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/3V7tu2kz1Wl3pK0rzLEwNp?si=wWFDMytNSomHdaVB1Zf9Hw  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/3otFpecCzgEE0v4Z5xb8GV?si=PIu6pdLjT1G5sOswtl-zRg


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I was gone for so long!!!! I moved back home. Finally feeling sane enough to work on personal projects again lol. I really hope you all enjoy this chapter! <3

The rest of the week was a bit of a blur. After spending the entire night after the concert telling the details of the evening to my sisters — the three of us huddled under the covers on my bed, giggling and poking each other — the next few days were spent lazing about and sleeping. When I had enough energy I would sit at the piano and play some softer pieces, and experiment with replicating the preludes Mr. Ren had performed. The melodies were constantly replaying themselves in my mind anyway. So was his image, the vision of him in his suit, his height, his powerful walk… I’d get so distracted while practicing that I would stop playing altogether.

“Off to your lesson?” Nessa asked, resting her sewing project on her lap. I had come into the living room to collect my books and the sheets Mr. Ren had asked me for the week before.

“Yes,” I replied, piling everything neatly into my bag. “Although I’m a little worried. I didn’t practice much.”

“Hm, yes. Quite a lot of thinking instead, right?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Never mind. I’ll see you later.”

“Until then,” she sing-songed, and picked up her sewing again.

With the twenty-or-so minutes it took to get to Mr. Ren’s, my mind had some time to think itself into a ball of worry. How would I greet him, now that I had seen him play? Would I even be able to look at him in the eye without getting flustered? His talent was to be expected, of course, but experiencing it firsthand was something else altogether. How could an amateur like myself give him the proper acclaim he deserved? What if my comments sounded immature and uncultured? Was it even the proper thing to do, to compliment his performance and talk about it? It’s not like he was the conversational type to begin with, but was that because he prefers to talk about music? I continued to wrap myself in my thoughts until the carriage stopped and Anthony opened my door.

“Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes,” I took his offered hand and helped myself out of the cabin. “Just thinking, lost in my thoughts.”

Anthony smiled and nodded knowingly.

“Ah, yes. I know the feeling very well. Have a good lesson, miss.”

“Thank you, Anthony.”

When Mr. Hux opened the door, I greeted him with a smile. He did not reciprocate.

“Come in,” he muttered. His eyes avoided mine as he shut the door loudly.

_Charming as always._

We walked down the hallway to the piano room, and I saw that the double doors were already open. Beams of coloured light poured onto the carpet in the hallway, and I had to squint as I stepped into the door frame.

“She’s here,” announced Mr. Hux. Was he more pointed than usual? Was that even possible? He was gone before I could question it any further.

“Hello, Mr. Ren.”

I looked at him lounging in his chair, book in his hands. It was the familiar Mr. Ren I knew from my lessons, but another creature altogether compared to the man I saw at the music hall a few nights before. I tried to juxtapose the public version of him over the one I was staring at; they were undeniably the same, but gave off wildly different energies. Both were very guarded and distant. However, the Mr. Ren on stage had a powerful aura like that of smouldering coals, burning hot and red. The energy of him here, in his own house, was like the depth of the ocean: quiet, cold, heavy, and dark. It occurred to me that I didn’t know which version I preferred.

“Hello,” he greeted, using my last name for the first time — I liked the way it sounded on his lips. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was starting to warm up to my presence.

“Oh, I have the sheets you asked for.”

I opened the flap of my bag and retrieved the small booklet of papers. Mr. Ren stood from his chair and joined me in a few strides, his height making me feel like a dwarf. His large hand deftly swiped the pages from my small ones, and flipped them open. I waited for him to say something, but he simply returned to his chair and examined the music. _You’re welcome,_ I grumbled in my mind.

“Sit,” he instructed, eyes still on the music sheets. I made a face and turned to do as he said. At least everything was in order today; no need to spend half of our allotted time cleaning up after his mess. Not that our lessons were very time-sensitive in the first place.

“You should see Mr. Darcy about acquiring some more pieces by Debussy,” I provided, opening my booklet of etudes and setting it on the tiny shelf. “If that pieceinterested you, I’m sure the others will as well.”

“You know Mr. Darcy.”

A statement. Not surprising, seeing as he was the type who asked very few questions.

“He’s a friend. He always puts aside a book or song for me, when he thinks I’d like it.”

No response. Also not surprising.

“In fact, he invited me to accompany him to your show the other night. Well, because his wife was sick and couldn’t attend.”

“He _what?_ ”

Mr. Ren’s voice was low, intense, and sent a jolt through my neck. So _that_ he would respond to? I couldn’t tell if I was pleased or scared. Either way, I refused to look back at him, instead focusing my attention on his handwriting in the margins of my book.

“I enjoyed hearing your compositions, Mr. Ren,” I said casually, hiding the fact that I had been completely enamoured by his playing. “I think the fifth piece was my favourite, the way it—“

My words were cut short when a large hand clamped down onto my shoulder, and yanked me sideways. My legs got tangled on the piano bench’s, my torso twisted to face him.

“Who said you could attend that performance?” he asked, his voice lower than I had ever heard it before. His fingers dug into my shoulder-blade, and I winced.

“U-Um, M-Mr. Darcy did.”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

The fiery intensity of his eyes burned into mine, and any ounce of confidence I had shrivelled up to nothing. I was frozen, my mind blank with fear. Because of the strain, I was now sitting on the edge of the bench, feet planted to the floor, and Mr. Ren bent over me with his increasingly firm grip on my shoulder.

“Did I ever say you could see me play?”

“No, sir,” I whispered.

“I thought I had been very clear with your father when I told him I would be your teacher. Your _teacher_. Not a piece of entertainment.”

His mention of my father confused me, and brought some clarity back to the front of my mind. _That’s_ why he was upset? Because this somehow breached the contract he made with my father? Something neither of them had even _slightly_ included me in, despite my being the common factor?

“ _Excuse me_ , but I’m not privy to what you and _my father_ have agreed on in terms of this ‘arrangement’.”

My frustration was leaking out in my voice, and though I was still mildly terrified of how aggressive he was being, I couldn’t back down from the injustice of it.

“And now you’re talking back to me,” he barked, causing me to jump. I used this opportunity to push away from his grip and stand up, the piano bench skidding across the wooden floor from the propulsion. We were still barely a foot away from each other, so I stared up at him angrily.

“Because you’re being insolent!” I shouted back at him, my hands balling into fists. I was still terrified, of course, but I had reached the end of my tolerance with his absurd behaviour. I didn’t care about his stupidly handsome face or how he played like the piano was invented solely for him. I didn’t care about father’s “contract” with him. I didn’t care anymore, about any of it.

I heard a flutter and _thwack_ behind me. When I turned to look, my book of etudes was halfway across the room, lying on the floor with its pages open. _Wait… how did that happen?_ I looked back at Mr. Ren, and his face was almost red with rage.

“You’re a spoiled little brat, you have absolutely _no_ respect for your superiors, and you don’t even play well!” He was shouting so loudly now that his entire body was shaking. Had he thrown the book? But how could he have done that when the book was behind us, and I had been looking at him the entire time?

“I’m _so sorry_ I’m such a disappointment,” I retorted, choosing to ignore the book for now. The train of frustration egged me on. “I can’t believe I haven’t achieved a maestro status four sessions into my lessons; I wonder if it has anything to do with my _horrible excuse for a teacher_!”

Mr. Ren raised his hand as if to strike me, but instead clenched his fist. A torrent of thuds came from behind us again, and I looked back in shock. About a dozen books were strewn about on what had previously been a barren floor. The second time couldn’t be a bizarre coincidence. How on earth were things moving on their own?

“ _Look at me_.”

My gaze returned to his, slowly, and I looked at him in fear. His normally dark hazel eyes burned like a glowing ember. I could feel a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck and under the nape of my dress.

“I _will not_ tolerate this attitude of yours,” he said through gritted teeth. “You _will_ respect me and follow my rules if you are to be my student. You _will not_ raise your voice to me, ever again. Do you understand?”

“Oh, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Mr. Ren. Luckily for you, I don’t think you’ll have to withstand my attitude any longer.”

A scorching hatred was taking over me. Shaking with the adrenaline, I walked past Mr. Ren and out of the room with as much composure as I could muster. Halfway down the hallway to the main door, I heard the double door slam shut, the bang almost as loud as a gunshot. My fear — or anger, I couldn’t tell which was which at this point — made me walk faster, until I was out the front door and running down the walkway. Anthony was reading a book, and dropped it when I ran into the carriage.

“Heavens! Miss, are you all right?”

“I doesn’t matter, just go.”

“But you’ve only just begun your lesson, did something —“

“I said _GO_!” I shouted, jumping into the cabin and yanking the door shut. I heard Anthony click his tongue and we were off, the carriage rattling noisily over the cobblestone. _Perfect,_ I thought. I let my face fall into my hands, stifling my quiet sobs the entire ride home.

———

I was sitting in the living room with a book of poetry open on my lap. I stared at the ink on the paper, sinking into the shape of the stanzas. The words registered in my mind, but I wasn’t understanding anything. I kept re-reading the same lines over and over again:

_You cannot fold a flood_

_And put it in a drawer,—_

Him, a flood. His face traced by the commas and dashes. Infuriatingly pervasive and so damningly _loud_. I slammed the book shut and threw it at the wall. The sound caused a wave of _deja vu_ from just hours before, and my fingers curled up with fear.

“What the hell was that?” A voice rang out from upstairs. Nessa. Her confusion was quickly met by her footsteps pattering down the staircase, until she was standing in the doorway of the room I was in. Her eyes found the book on the floor, and then turned to mine.

“You’re home early.”

“Don’t start,” I warned, flopping myself over lengthwise on the couch.

“Mr. Ren?”

Even his name made the hairs on my arms stand up. Though I had my palm over my closed eyes, I could see him perfectly. I desperately wished I could rip up the photo of him I had in my mind.

“The two of you have an interesting chemistry, don’t you?”

At this, I groaned.

“He’s _mental_ , Nessa. Actually mental.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Why do you assume I started it?” I exclaimed, lifting my hand to glare at her.

“Well,” she started, taking a seat beside me on the floor. I looked away from her. “You seem to trigger the explosive side of him.”

“That’s _his_ problem,” I retorted. “It’s not my fault he’s a complete lunatic.”

Nessa _tsked_ and muttered my name.

“Maybe so. Maybe the two of you should just focus on the piano,” she offered, which felt like sensible advice for about two seconds.

“Piano is what initiated it. I don’t think we have any way of avoiding our confrontations. Seeing as that it’s the entire reason for my being there in the first place.”

“Yes, yes,” Nessa said impatiently, “but clearly the both of you have a love for music. Go back to the roots of what you’re both there for. Be there for the music, not for him.”

For the music. I considered it. If I kept my mouth shut every time I went over, would we be able to get along? Surely he’d say something that would make me stick my foot in my mouth. What was I gaining from practicing and playing in front of him every week? To be criticized? He had offered some — now annoyingly — helpful instructions on how to perfect my pieces, but was all of this chaos worth a scribbled note on my sheet music?

“Ugh!” I grunted, getting tangled in my thoughts again. “I don’t want to go back. I really don’t… He scared me, Nessa.”

I met my sister’s gaze. She finally seemed concerned.

“How?”

_Because the winds would find it out,_

_And tell your cedar floor._

“He just…” I thought about the books flying across the room. His pale, trembling face. How could I even explain that without making it sound like _I’m_ the one who’s insane?

“He just scared me. He was aggressive.”

“Did he touch you?” She whispered.

“No. Well, yes—”

“WHAT?” Nessa shouted, eyes wide as saucers.

“Let me finish!” I held her wrist and patted the back of her hand. “He put his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t hit me or do anything… inappropriate.”

‘ _He put his hand on my shoulder’_ was putting it very lightly, but considering my sister’s reaction, I would leave the details at that.

“Why would he even put his hand on your shoulder, though?”

Damn my sister. Too quick for me, as always.

“To… get my attention.”

I got an immediate frown in response.

“Were you ignoring him?”

“It’s not like that, Nessa. Look— I really don’t want to talk about this anymore, I can’t even imagine the earful I’m going to get from Papa when he gets home.” It was true. If I thought my sister’s reactions were hard to handle, I didn’t even want to _think_ of what my father would say. Or rather, scream.

“Speaking of father, I’m going to make myself scarce now.” I stood and hauled Nessa up with me, both of her hands in one of mine.

“You’ll have to talk to him eventually,” she cautioned, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. The smell gesture was so comforting that I almost began to cry.

“Eventually.” I murmured while squeezing her hand. “I’m going to go out for a walk. Clear my head.”

“Alright. Be back before dark.”

I nodded and started to walk out of the room when she called out my name again.

“It’s going to be okay, little sister.”

I smiled. A warmth bloomed in my chest.

“Thank you, Nessa.”

My heart now a little lighter than it was when I first got home, I took a stroll by the creek with my chin up. I kicked my boots into the soggy mud. The tear-shaped leaves above me shaded me from the setting sun. The anxiety buzzing through my veins kept me warm despite the urgent chill that signified it was now autumn. I resented the change of season. The way it mirrored the way I felt inside made me feel bitter. The culprit of my worries felt like a fiery hot, branded hand on my right shoulder. I started to face the events that had transpired earlier, and this dizzying concoction of emotions that accompanied them.

I had been perfectly clear on my intention of never returning to his house. My heart did no waver in the slightest when I proclaimed it, or on the ride home, or the hour spent ignoring what had happened. Now alone, walking in the quiet, I felt the rush of dread and confusion that I had stifled. _What on earth happened?_ We fought, but things were strange, as though I was seeing or hearing things. But I _didn’t_ see or hear things. It was real. Everything in that moment, despite how impossible they are to explain. In the very moment, it was too much to absorb all at once. Deciphering it now, replaying it… _what happened?_ _How did those books move on their own?_

It had to be him. It was him, wasn’t it? What other explanation was there? Ghosts? Of course not. The way he stared at me, like he was directing an energy _through_ me. Unflinching at the cacophony behind me. It had to be him. I couldn’t explain why it felt so much like _him_ , like he somehow extended across the room — or rather, inhibited it — and took command of everything. It terrified me, but I couldn’t deny that a small, very small part of me was absolutely and positively thrilled by it. His presence had been deafening. My heart didn’t beat for a minute. How I managed to talk or retort at all is beyond me, thinking back on it now. The shock hadn’t settled in yet.

Blushing with the guilt of my growing intrigue, I fortified myself to stay strong. I couldn’t go back. Not after that screaming match. The way he grabbed me. The hateful words that were spit from his mouth. Those did not intrigue me, rather the opposite: something inside of me was warning me to stay far away from this man. _Stay away._

_Stay away._

I really need to stay away from him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I'm back!!! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in such a long time. I got into a car crash and a whole bunch of other life crap happened, and writing was honestly the last thing on my mind. Everything's a lot better now, so I wanted to get back into spending time with this work. I rewatched all the Star Wars movies and it reignited my passion (lol). I also binged Bridgerton in one day and that definitely made me think of this fic and the different places I want to take it. 
> 
> Check out the end notes for songs mentioned in this chapter, and I hope you enjoy!

As one can probably imagine, the conversation with my father did not go so well. When I returned from my three-hour long walk in the marshes — until the very last wisps of daylight were gone — Papa was standing in our open doorway with his arms crossed. Unlike Mr. Ren, his face was exploding with emotion and rage. From far away, I could’ve sworn his head had been replaced by a tomato.

We were at each other’s throats for a few hours. Nessa, hovering in the corner of every room we stormed into; Nancy, peeking from between the rungs at the top of the staircase. We hit nearly every room in the house, pacing, chasing, sitting slouched over in chairs. Despite listing everything Mr. Ren had said _and_ done to me, my father would cut through my words and attack me, accusing me of being an ungrateful brat. Nessa would chip in sometimes, blockading herself between the two of us if necessary — it had been required several times. Papa would simply not hear of me quitting my lessons. No matter how I pleaded or screamed, his answer was always the same: you are not quitting. If only I could truly understand why he is so offended by the concept. Losing hope in my own arguments, we finally came to the consensus that I would attend my piano lessons as intentioned. _Listen to your teacher,_ he said.

Fine.

Standing on the doorsteps I had come to dread, I stared blankly at the wooden door. The sun above me caused a line of sweat to form on my brow. How many times had I been here now? Every time with Mr. Hux’s brisk and cold invitation inside, every time with Mr. Ren silent in his chair — or his fury. I had already come to a conclusion on what my approach would be like today and every day onwards: complete and unwavering apathy. It didn’t matter how I got myself through my lessons — according to my father, mind you — as long as I fulfilled the basic requirements of being a student.

It must be just about four o’clock, now. Being late again would no doubt cause a bigger annoyance, so I knocked twice and steeled myself. The door creaked open.

“Come in.”

I didn’t meet Mr. Hux’s judgemental gaze. I stepped inside, allowing the door to thud loudly behind me in lieu of speaking. The man almost seemed relieved.

My desire to be completely placid wavered once I entered the familiar hallway. I had run past these lamps, these paintings, body vibrating with rage and shame, vowing to never return. And yet here I was, walking back. Back into the den. If I could summon enough anger to mask the fear I was undoubtedly feeling, I would be fine.

Things will be fine.

I pulled out the piano bench and sat down. Mr. Hux hadn’t even bothered to announce my presence this time, perhaps insinuating a wordless discussion between the concierge and his master. Have they talked about me? Surely. Who else would’ve delivered the bad news of my return if not for the stick in the mud that greeted me at the door every week?

Mr. Ren was still in his chair. There had been no acknowledgement of my presence. The whole idea of not having to talk to each other had seemed great in theory, but sitting there awkwardly without a clue on how to proceed made me wish for a least a modicum of social etiquette. Not that that was necessarily his forte. Thankfully I had prepared for such a lull, and began to play the etudes that were expected of me.

Nessa had been right — well, she was always annoyingly right. As soon as my fingers hit the keys, I could feel some of the tension coiled up inside of my stomach loosen. Music was the reason we were both here in this room together. My love for piano had to be stronger than the frustrations of an anti-social teacher. I could almost begin to forget our problems and fights when I was playing like this, occasionally closing my eyes to fully savour the sounds resonating from this grand instrument. Reaching the third etude, my breaths slowed and my shoulders relaxed. This is why I was here. This is why Mr. Ren was here, too; somewhere, deep down, existed a love for piano that lead him to where he is today. We had to be able to at least share this in common. I hoped that it would be enough to keep us both well-tempered.

With the very last notes of the etude resonating in the air, I let out a small sigh and let my fingers slip off the keys onto my lap. I smoothed out the wrinkles in my dress, seeking comfort in the glossy material: an opalescent blue that emitted pinks and yellows depending on the light. A spot of colour in an otherwise monochrome room. The contrast of my presence started to sink in as I waited, listening to my teacher’s calm breaths, ears pricked for the long inhale that would signify that he was about to speak. Time continued to tick by, the room darkening as clouds would pass in front of the sun. I wasn’t going to be the one to break the ice this time.

As if on queue with my thoughts, Mr. Ren spoke.

“Did you practice the next etude?”

“I did,” I replied, turning on the bench to face him. We met each other’s gaze, and it was calm. Guarded. “Though I didn’t get very far in learning it.”

“Hm.”

I returned my attention to the piano, observing my warped reflection in the dark wood. Was this how things were going to be from now? Being so unattached that we were barely present at all? I supposed it was preferable to rage, but something felt wrong about being so dispassionate in a musical setting. Whether it be love or hatred, music was built on strong emotion, needed it to exist. The room, and even the instrument in front of me, felt so hollow now. Chopin’s etudes had rung out with notes of anxiety, of fear, and then of reassurance and comfort once I could feel myself acclimate to being back in this house. What now? How would the strings sing now?

Even Mr. Ren let his stone mask fall away when he had preformed. Despite always keeping himself tucked away and frozen, there had been an incredible rawness exposed on that night, as I’m sure there always was when he played the piano. Violent, careful strokes, hurried and painfully drawn out, the facets of his personality finally expressed in their truest nature. Not unlike our argument, when it felt like the ground was practically shaking with his anger, things flying, energy vibrating off of him like a plucked cello string. Beautiful and terrifying. Frustratingly artful.

“Play it,” he instructed, snapping me from my thoughts. Sucking my lips in to keep myself from retorting, I flipped to the next page of etudes: _No. 4 in C Sharp Minor_.A difficult piece, even though that was expected of Chopin’s _Etudes_. It was fast, angry, turbulent. In fact, it was very reminiscent of the man sitting behind me, and that whirlwind energy of his I had just been thinking about. In our month of us knowing each other, he pushed me past my technical limits with his insistence in learning a new etude every week. The first I could now play relatively well, for a student, but the other two — and now the fourth — were sloppy, at best. I wasn’t sure if this was intentional or not, but overloading me with these complex pieces was creating a dilution in my ability to play them. Surely it was some kind of psychological torture to cause me to break down — or break through.

Stumbling my way through the piece, I flinched every time I struck a wrong note. Agitation was emanating from the man behind me; I could tell by how thick the air felt, how silent his breathing had gotten. By the time I got to the end of the piece — nearly ten minutes later — I was ready to suffocate.

“Again.”

What else did I expect? It didn’t matter whether this was a test or truly how we would carry on our lessons from now on; I had no choice but to oblige. Much like our first afternoon together I replayed the piece, and he would say _again_ , and we did this back and forth until the tips of my fingers were numb. The song felt like it was invading my very skin, my veins, with its chaos and heaviness. Maybe this is what it felt like to be _him_ , I imagined. Maybe this was the weight and exhaustion he carried within, to make his words and actions sound so much like the etude I was growing to hate. I grumbled under my breath, but was shocked when I felt a tremor ripple throughout the room.

“Was that…” I started to ask, swivelling to face Mr. Ren, however he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were staring out the window to his left. From my angle, I could only see a grey sky and a swaying tree, leaves flickering between green and white in the wind. We looked back at each other, and before I could continue my thought a loud crunching _crack_ ripped through the house. Within seconds, rain started to hit the house and windows, the sound increasing and decreasing, swaying, as if the sky had turned into waves. Another loud crack, rumbling into a boom, made the house shiver. Mr. Ren’s face looked pale blue in the flashes of lightning, which were coming on more frequently now. Would the horses be able to make it home in such conditions?

_The horses._

I pushed away from the piano so forcefully that the bench nearly toppled over. As I ran through the double doors and down the dark hallway, another crash of thunder rolled throughout the house. _Oh no, oh no, oh-no-oh-no-oh-no_. My mind was spiralling as I stumbled into the front door, hands grasping for the door knob, and finally pulling it open. A spray of cold water whipped across my face, and I squinted to see into the misty street. It only took a moment to see that my assumption had been correct.

The carriage was gone.

I quickly closed the door again. There was a small puddle of water at my feet, and I noticed that my dress was covered in dark blue splotches from having gotten wet. When I turned around to consider my next options, I saw that both Mr. Ren and Mr. Hux were standing a few feet away from me.

“Oh,” was all I said, blinking at their cold stares. Neither one of them reacted. My heart began to race, as if the rain was my fault, that this predicament was my fault, and that I was purposefully burdening them by just being here. I glanced at my coat on the rack beside me, and hurriedly yanked it off.

“It’s… I’m…” I stuttered, trying to shrug myself into my jacket but getting my hand caught in the sleeve. “There seems to be some rain,” I mumbled dumbly, as though that had not occurred to anyone.

“Your driver has left.” Mr. Hux looked at me like a bug he would very much like to squash.

“Yes, I think, perhaps, the horses… the thunder…” I trailed off, finally managing to fully get into my coat. I started to push the buttons through their holes with one hand as I reached for the door knob. “It’s not so bad, I can… walk—”

“Are you actually that stupid?” The concierge asked me, and it didn’t feel very rhetorical. “It’s a storm.”

“Yes, but,” and at this point, I didn’t know what I was responding to, “I’ve walked through worse.” I opened the door and it swung into the wall violently, a gust of wind blowing through and causing us all to regain our balance.

“Close the bloody door!” Hux shouted at me through the whistling wind. The man stormed over and yanked me aside by the wrist. He shielded his eyes with one hand as he pushed the door closed, against the wind, clicking it shut. The hallway was mostly quiet again, save for the patter of rain. I looked at Mr. Ren, who was looking at Mr. Hux. The three of us stood completely still for a few moments until I just couldn’t bear the awkwardness anymore.

“I suppose I can stay for a little while, if that’s alright, to wait for the storm to pass.”

“It’s not like we have any other option,” Hux grumbled, releasing my wrist and stalking down the hallway. He walked to the very end and made a right, into a room I had never visited. Come to think of it, the music room and the hallway leading to it were the only places I had seen in this house. I knew from the outside that it was a three-story house, perfectly mirrored with two sets of windows on each side and each floor. Not that a piano student would be invited on a full tour, of course, but I was definitely curious of what mysteries the rest of the palace contained.

“Take off your jacket and return to the music room.”

My teacher gave his command and turned to leave, shortly disappearing through those double doors I had just burst through. Considering the situation, I obeyed without hesitation. When I reached the doorway to the music room, I attempted to brush my damp bangs into shape. Mr. Ren stood at the window, with his back to me. Lightning struck, and the shadow he cast nearly reached my feet.

“We weren’t done our lesson,” he said without turning to address me.

“O-Oh… right. I’m sorry.”

“Just sit down.”

Continuing to do as I was told, I took my place at the bench once more and scooted up to the piano. The thunder was being more persistent now, growling in the background like a nervous dog. I could almost sense the hum of the piano strings, vibrating with the sounds of the earth, evoking a sense of dread with all of its dissonant chords.

“The piano…” I whispered.

“I know,” Mr. Ren interrupted, a hint of annoyance in his voice. I frowned. How much of today was I going to be blamed for, in his eyes? Or at least suffer the consequences of?

“What do you want me to play?” I asked, trying hard not to let the irritation show. It seemed no matter how hard either one of us tried, we always ended up here: fed up with one another.

“What do you think you should play?”

At this, I glanced at the man. He was looking directly at me now, finally. The room was beginning to darken considerably at this point, but I could still see the reflections of light on his irises. Neither one of us blinked.

“I think I should play what I want.”

A blink. The clenching of his jaw. His index and middle fingers giving a small twitch. I braced myself for an angry rejection, but instead watched him walk over to his chair and sit down. When he crossed one leg over the other, I turned my attention back to the piano and carefully positioned my hands on the keys.

I decided to go with Nessa’s favourite: a heavenly piece appropriately named _Dawn_. It was one of the pieces we had found in our mother’s repertoire, and thus something I had been playing for a very long time. Instead of visualizing the sheet music or playing a few notes ahead in my mind like I did with most other pieces, this one flowed through my fingertips as though it had a life of its own. It felt so natural to play it with my eyes closed, because it didn’t feel complete without the imagery that accompanied it: rolling fields of green grass turned golden by the sun bursting from the horizon, clouds painting a watercolour landscape of oranges, pinks, and purples. When Nancy was still a toddler, we would take her on walks in the countryside. Because she was so young she would get tired and grumpy very easily, so we’d often lie down in a pasture and make each other crowns out of clover. When we’d return home, flower crowns still tangled in our hair, I’d sit down at the piano and play until both Nessa and Nancy had fallen asleep on the couch.

Playing it now, like this, in this dark room… it was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Bringing such a fond and happy memory into such a dreary room felt a bit like carrying a candle into the rain. It wobbled and feared being snuffed out, but I carried it carefully, protectively, to bring some warmth and light to an otherwise hopeless environment. The piece competed with the rumbles of thunder and the rattling of windows, and though it struggled against the chaotic energy, it emerged true. The last chord rung deeply, practically swaying in rhythm with the wind, and brought a serene sense of stillness to the room. After a minute or two, I turned around to confirm that Mr. Ren was still in the room. He was, and still in his chair, in the exact same position he was in before I performed, looking directly at me. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look happy, either. Not that I could ever recall having seen him happy. I could sense a deeper layer behind the coldness of his features now. Like something had shifted. Just the thought made my heart begin to race, but before I could open my mouth to inquire just _what_ he may be feeling, a voiced cleared itself from the doorway.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour, sir,” Mr. Hux strolled in, turning his back to me and addressing his master. “And because the weather has not changed, I’m assuming I am to prepare… _another seat_ at the table.”

I nearly rolled my eyes with how preposterous he made the notion sound. I was definitely not the kind of company Mr. Ren usually kept, but it’s not as though I had any choice in the matter or was trying to impose in any way.

“I’m fine with waiting here,” I offered. Both men ignored me.

“Yes, prepare a seat for her. Tell the maid to prepare the guest room for her, as well.”

The _what_ now? I think Mr. Hux and I had the same expression on our faces.

“Mr. Ren, I don’t think that will—”

“Silence,” the man interrupted, waving his hand in the air to dismiss me. “The storm is only growing stronger and will likely not cease until the early morning. You will stay the night and return home in the morning. I’m sure a driver will be here to retrieve you by then.”

Mr. Hux shot me a look that could only be construed as complete disdain, and exited the room. Rather ominously, a crackle of thunder followed his departure.

“Mr. Ren, I really don’t—”

“Stop it. There’s no point in complaining or trying to apologize.”

We stared at each other in the now very dimly lit room, the only light sources being the streetlamp outside and the few lights that hung in the hallway adjacent. It had to be nighttime by now. I tried counting back the hours between my coming here, the length of the lesson, the interruption of the storm, and the announcement of the upcoming dinner… I guess it did make sense. I had been here for a couple of hours now.

Heeding Mr. Ren’s desire that I not complain or apologize, I sighed and clasped my hands on my lap. Still, this movement seemed to annoy him. He got up from his chair, and gave me the instruction to practice the etudes until dinner was ready. When he left the room, my mouth opened in disbelief but I quickly snapped it shut when he returned moments later with a lit candelabrum in his hand. I averted his gaze as he approached me and placed it on the music shelf.

“Thank you,” I murmured, and he exited the room once more without acknowledging me.

I rolled my shoulders back and stretched my neck to one side. _What a day_. And it wasn’t anywhere near being over yet, either. I thought of my sisters and father. The three of them were likely incredibly worried, and were no doubt trying to come up with a way to retrieve me right away. Given the intensity of the storm, however, it was unlikely that anyone was going to show up until the wind and rain stopped. This seems like the kind of situation that would normally be quite distressing, but I felt oddly apathetic to my circumstances. If this moment was any indication of what my stay here would be like, it would be me alone in the candle-lit darkness, listening to the storm rage on outside of these sturdy walls.

So, I did as I was told. It was much preferable to just staring at the wall until I was called upon. The etudes were even more difficult in the dark, but the reliance on my muscle-memory and knowledge of music theory felt like it was helping me in the long run. Everything sounded quite eerie in the darkness with the background din, the trembling flames of the candles, and the dissonance of the wrong keys. I cycled through the four pieces: slowly, precisely, deliberately. Somewhere in this house, no matter how far he was or how little he cared, Mr. Ren would be able to hear me playing. Was he in his room, cursing the bad weather for dumping me onto him? Was he off reading a book, not a single thought about our current predicament? What other things did he do in his life when he wasn’t teaching or composing? My mind drifted as I let my fingers dance across the keys.

Someone timidly knocked at the door, and I stopped mid-piece to address them. It was a maid, one I had never seen before, in a grey smock with a plain lace apron. I had let my mind wander for so long that this moment came a lot sooner that I expected it to.

“Dinner’s ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned:
> 
> 4th etude: https://open.spotify.com/track/7nVhbuvPFNSvLMJzVRUpF4?si=SWaAo4NTSP-xYC1cWhhoZg  
> Dawn (of course it's from pride and prejudice lol): https://open.spotify.com/track/0EHJOhOakEiobXo81vegdy?si=t6CGrw1CSpyVBMUhz2pGNw
> 
> I'll hopefully see you soon with the next chapter! I'm sorry if this one felt filler-ish, better things are to come. <3


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